Memories of Never, an Unofficial Warcraft Story
by S. D. Forogar
Summary: This is something of a spin on the original Lich King downfall story. Beginning as the Horde and Alliance champions challenge Icecrown Citadel and begin to fell its grandest, most horrible defenders, this story covers a tangential arc of story brought about by a small deviation from the current tale. Please read on, follow and review, and I hope you enjoy.
1. Memories of Never, a Warcraft Story

**Memories of Never, an Unofficial Warcraft Story**

 **Chapter Zero: They Are Coming Soon**

 _ **-LK-**_

 _ **Only one change needed to happen. Only one part of this story needed to be different. Not a particularly large change, either, but just a push from countless years before Arthas took on the mantle of Lich King, or of any King. This all happened long before, and we should have seen it coming, but at that time, we were far younger and knew nothing.**_

 _ **I know this, having seen all the timelines. I know this, having seen everything that you have provided to me. You are the final string in this weaving of the world as it was to become. You are the final statement of a world which once could have been, and which now is. There is nothing but the end to come, my Master. I don't want to die, but I trust that I will.**_

 _ **For none could know that there was still some of the God of Death left, to set all of this in motion. None could have seen the inner weaving of this warped timeline, not the adventurers who'd visited upon Ulduar righteous judgment nor the scholars nor surveyors who'd studied it all. I should have, but there are things out there that we cannot see, even with our constant vigilance and our extensive experiences. Bronze is the wing we must live by, however; Bronze is the flag we must flourish.**_

 ** _This, I know, because Bronze is the color of corruption._**

 _ **-LK-**_

They were coming soon.

Champions of the Alliance and the Horde were on their way, and their King was waiting. He had felt Lana'thel's demise almost an hour before, and just ten minutes ago Putricide himself had fallen, and the green dragon Valithria Dreamwalker had been freed of his influence. They were all falling, all of his most loyal and powerful forces.

"I suppose the paladin wants to make an audience with me soon enough, Bolvar," he spoke to the man chained overhead. No response was forthcoming, but the Lich King needed none.

Everything was going according to plan. Soon, they would be here, and then he would see if they were worthy of an audience with the King.


	2. A King's Reign Begins Anew

**Memories of Never, an Unofficial Warcraft Story**

 **Chapter One: A King's Reign Begins Anew**

 ** _-LK-_**

The greatsword Frostmourne glowed a brilliant blue along its plethora of runes, and Arthas smiled his evil smile, as the lives of twenty-five of Azeroth's greatest champions were snuffed all at once. Behind a mask of black plate, below eyes that glowed with death, the Lich King smiled, and spoke.

"No questions remain unanswered," he spoke to a paladin of the Holy Light and a prisoner of the Alliance, for no others lived to hear his words. "No doubts linger, in this world that awaits its King. You are Azeroth's greatest champions, and I am its greatest King! You overcame all to meet me here this day, every challenge, and all of my mightiest servants have fallen before your immutable might, your unbridled fury!"

The smile faded some, but none save the Lich King himself could determine this. "It is truly righteousness that drove you, though, or simply the need to take what could not be held from you? Is it for the edicts of justice that you joined Fordring, or do you instead hold the rage of Mograine closer to your hearts? I wonder." A hand shot up, a hand coated in the remnants of a worn plate glove, and bits of metal fell to the icy stage that was Azeroth's final chance, but the glove's basic form held together. "You trained them well, Fordring, whatever the reason that they fought. And you delivered to me the greatest fighting force the world has ever known, as I'd intended. It would not do to let you die without your just reward, paladin of the Light."

Arthas' hand glowed a brilliant golden, but only for a second. As if his spirit had forgotten that he had forsaken the Light in favor of the Void, a deep purplish-black crawled up his hand to eat away the glow, emitting a dull resonance in sound and dim light. "Watch now as I raise them from the dead to become Lords of the Scourge! They will shroud this world in chaos and destruction, and you will be the first to test their might!" He began to laugh, high and maniacally, and as his soldiers pushed themselves weakly off of the ground, his laughter intensified. They tried to stand, but one by one, they were thrust into the air and held as if bound by rope at the neck. They roared with animals' vigor, clawing at their binds despite being unable to touch the Void's energy, and brilliant blue eyes glowed within them and seared far brighter in the skull of their new King.

"The greatest warriors, fighting for the Light, will defend the King of the Dead and be the tool of your downfall. I delight in the irony, Fordring. If only you'd-"

"LIGHT, GRANT ME ONE FINAL BLESSING!" Fordring's roar transcended his body's inability to move, to draw breath, to wonder at anything but the show Arthas intended for him, and this drove the smile from the King's face.

"Fordring," he spoke lowly, with a growl, and drew forth Frostmourne. He did not advance, but Arthas knew that his enemy would succeed. He'd never quite learned what catalyzed the force known to the zealous Silver Hand as 'The Light', but he knew its power. Even Frostmourne would not stand against it without a fight.

No. It wouldn't stand against the Light at all. Arthas could see the icy prison cracking, and through each crack sprung a well of light. His teeth grit, and he knew; something was stirring within his very being, gathering a feeling he thought he'd lost, a beast waking another beast. His spirit was reacting to the Light, and it was judging him, and he was going to face whatever it was in its full, glorious form. Fordring was going to kill him with it, and his breaths came in sharp and ragged, and the blade slacked in his palm.

"No!" he bellowed, raising Frostmourne proudly and pouring the last of the Light, the last of the Void, everything he had into its form. "Your King calls on you!" he bellowed, and he could feel the blade wavering with his will, with his power. If Frostmourne had a consciousness, it would have been screaming in pain. "Now kill him!"

"GIVE ME THE STRENGTH TO SHATTER THESE BONDS!" And shatter them he did, and Arthas met him with a bellow, drawing Frostmourne down upon the thrusting punch of a swiftly-coming Ashbringer.

"DIE, FORDRING!" he roared, but he knew even then that there was no way his blade would survive if the two met. Time almost seemed to stop as he brought the runed blade down toward the beacon of light that was Fordring's Ashbringer, and the ground trembled with the might of even moving the blades. Arthas, on some animal level, realized though that it was not his blade that shook the world, but the paladin's. His resolve snapped then, and he wanted to draw back; everything was so slow, as if he swung through air thick as molasses, but he couldn't think to retreat. He would meet Fordring's challenge, and together they would write some history, for good or for ill.

He, the Lich King, would not shy.

They met, and an explosive blast ensued, but neither blade rang true against the other. Instead, a body stood between both of them, or perhaps more accurately erupted in a mass of gore between them. Fleshy red-and-pink globs tore through the air toward either competitor, glares meeting as blades washed light over one another. Ashbringer glowed with the Holy Light, and Frostmourne dimmed in equal measure with the expended energy of Arthas' fight and his inner turmoil. He smiled awkwardly, and then let out another laugh even crazier than the last. He'd lost an invaluable servant, but as the Ashbringer dimmed in the presence of the King, he knew he had won.

Others rose from the ground, though when they'd fallen Arthas had no idea or recollection. He'd not felt their impact, not seen them collapse, but he'd certainly been meeting with a more pressing matter at the time. Now, he took several steps backward, and his free left hand shot outward for his minions to see. "Perform your duty to your new King," he told the blue-eyed, bloodied, ragged adventurers who'd fought alongside him. "It is for me you will kill, and it is for me that you will cleanse this world of his kind of filth. You tried, Fordring. Now die, and witness the might of my champions as you do."

Fordring's face was a mess of emotion, but above all of them was a seething rage that he could not contain. "Arthas!" he bellowed, encircled by two dozen warriors of the Scourge. He took a step toward the King, and a flash of light beget a mighty wolf's violent rumbling growl, as it stood between the paladin and the death knight.

"A druid, feral as they come," the Lich King mused. "They don't really practice the Light, and may have nothing to fear from you." The gentle hissing of a bow drawing behind Fordring showed a master archer readying his arrow, Blood Elven ears drooping as if bowing reverently to his new servitude. "And the point of your demise eyes you down. I believe this one will be Dra'danas Phoenixshadow." Dra'danas' arrow held for ten, then fifteen, then thirty impossible seconds at full draw. The Lich King delighted in his soldiers' inability to tire or waver, in the victory he couldn't not receive. The King believed his Elf could have stood there for an hour or more, and still not release to even a nocked arrow. Its muscles didn't burn like a mortal's, and its eyes showed no strain.

Fordring's rage turned, just a bit. It was enough. The Lich King saw fear in his adversary's eyes, the snap of deepest conviction; even Fordring could see a challenge yet as great as the Lich King himself, and it terrified the wizened paladin to wonder what Arthas could now do to the world soon to fall under his grasp.

Two burly warriors edged to one side of Fordring; Arthas didn't even know their names, and wasn't sure he truly cared. They would be renamed in his forces anyway. Both were massive-chested Tauren, one bearing a large, black, spiky shield and a vicious-looking morningstar ("Defender Spiritbreath," a King thought with a smile), while the other beheld twin flaming greataxes that looked apiece too large for a single man to hold ("This one will be Nosh the Inferno"), but both looked quite similar. They both wore crested headplates brandishing the same colors of blue, red and deep amber in a flourishing artwork, customized as if they were brothers, and they both bore stars grafted into their shoulder-plates, indicating a rank apiece of no less than an Alliance brigadier-general. "They will prove useful," he mused, his voice echoing through the throne.

"There are others coming here to see you off, Arthas!" Fordring sputtered, turning here and there to meet the blue-eyed gazes of every one of the remaining twenty-four heroes. "They will bring judgment upon you!"

"Let them come and bolster my armies," the Lich King spoke, and in the deathly quiet that followed, his words reverberated endlessly.

Fordring growled his rage, the Ashbringer alighting again, and within a second a green dagger flew into his back. It connected true, driving into his side, just as an arrow was loosed and caught the righteous man in the right of his chest. From the crowd strode a roguely sneak-thieving Orc, who stopped just shy of the invisible circle drawn in the ice that held back the advance of Arthas' champions. "You will be Shayika Saurseeker. Humanity may have forsaken your kind, but all are welcome in the embrace of death." Saurseeker turned to eye her master, and a prideful grin decorated her features. _So you did all retain your minds,_ the Lich King thought. _Terrible, but perfect._

Fordring looked up, and from the glowing orange veins of a wizard standing beside Dra'danas came a wave of flame that slammed into his right cheek. The defender of the Argent Crusade screamed then, but it was a sound of fury less than pain. Fordring stood, and in a flash he was moving, and the Lich King's hand drove down with his bellowing cry: "KILL HIM!"

The wizard snapped a finger and thumb, and in a moment a massive fireball rushed out to meet Tirion Fordring head-on. The force of connection sent a shockwave through the ice, but it melted very little; here on the Crown, the ice was permanent, and would remain as such.

Fordring was not slowed, however, and rushed through the ensuing blast with a roar. The Ashbringer glowed fiercely again, and the wizard was rend in a moment. Fordring raised his blade to deflect the incoming blow from a mighty warmaul held by a female Blood Elf, who grunted and staggered with the meet of steel, before bringing it down mightily upon the body of the downed wizard. It hit with a sickening sound, a crunching of bone, and a spat of blood from a crushed skull matted the icy field. He then turned to meet the hammer again, batting it aside with such might that even the most skilled fighter could not have still held his armament.

The Elf bowed low, a dagger drawn to jab deep into Fordring's gut where the armor split, rolling with adept ease away from the falling blade. This didn't slow the paladin at all, but it did draw her a moment to regain her footing, and expertly the two fought footwork and ballet, dancing and swinging skillfully around and at one another, before she managed to gain advantage and lashed out in a martial kick at Fordring's left knee, buckling it. He immediately swung out a forearm, and in the same move took her from her feet to land with a metallic clank against the ice. Now prone, the Elf's neck was gripped, and she was slammed into the ice with enough force to daze. Ashbringer lifted, and . . .

. . . A massive wolf tore through the air to grip the grand paladin's plate glove, in the same move leaping overhead to tear him from his feet and toss him across the icy field. The Elven girl, for she could have been no more than seventeen years, shakily rose to her feet, damage done but not enough. "So you remember how to unite," Arthas mused, wondering why his healers stayed their magics, his robust defenders held their ground. "Fight as one, my champions. How do you believe you gave Fordring such hope?"

The Lich King vied to compete with this godly force Fordring had become, but he was spent of all the energy of the Void. He couldn't, and perhaps that was for the best; it did not do to have the King fight with his men, as that placed him equal. Even to heroes of this caliber, he was superior, and he knew it.

So he watched as two dozen became twenty-three, and very nearly twenty-two, and the fury lasted in the eye of the righteous. He couldn't risk summoning anything else to fight alongside his champions, if only he hoped to be able to stand against them after. "Twenty-three is a finer number anyway, isn't it?" he asked, and the paladin shrieked out his burning hate. "It needn't be twenty-two, if you unite. That is how we will bring judgment to the world."

"You are nothing but a monster, Arthas! I will free them, and every life you've taken from this world! I WILL DO IT ALONE!"

"You'll die trying," Arthas spoke as a portal crackled far away, and his grin should have been visible even through the plate helm. _Your heroes have come too late to save you, Tirion Fordring, last of the Silver Hand_. The Lich King raised Frostmourne again, and his champions closed. Fordring roared, but Arthas' grin did not let his struggling sounds drown out the perverted feeling of absolution he felt. The Light itself had come to judge him, and it had failed to administer.

And soon, he would have fresh champions to replace those he'd lost, and a bringer of ash to head them all.


	3. A King's First Battle

**Memories of Never, an Unofficial Warcraft Story**

 **Chapter Two: A King's First Battle**

 _ **-JP-**_

She happened upon them as they dragged Tirion Fordring's body between them. Like a fully-organized unit forming rank, Lady Jaina Proudmoore watched the Horde champions part in the front as Arthas walked forth, to meet with the hardy Tauren fighter who'd dragged Tirion from her. A massive duo of shields greeted her, with a greatsword drawn from a death knight acting as bulwark. The Tauren, twin axes slung over his shoulders, moved past the line of once-Horde champions, and it closed around him and his defeated captive in a single side-step.

Their raiding party had formed combat groups, and these aggressive fighters were serving as first-linesmen. The classic blue glow of the vicious undead bled from their eyes in glowing embers, and even with ragged armors torn from their certain fight with the Lich King, they'd no flutter of the irresolution she'd expect of living creatures that had something to lose. They could not lose anything ever again. They could not love life ever again.

"Arthas," she managed, her grip on her staff tightening, its point glowing a brilliant green like a blade of grass ignited by the morning sun. "Why can't you just leave this world in peace?" She felt fresh tears fall down her face, tears she thought had already been shed long ago. "You aren't the man I knew. Why can't you just die?"

The response came conversationally, but morosely, and she knew that he was thinking her very thoughts. "If this is the last time we talk, Jaina," he spoke, in a low echo, "then I want you to know how weak you made me." The twisted blade, Frostmourne, began to glow, almost smiling, like an evil puppet-master as its puppet obeyed. Runes along its length burned brightly, but it wasn't facing her. Instead, it aimed downward, at the feet of the burly Tauren that had stolen away the body of her honorable ally. "It takes strength to walk the path of the damned. This world will fall to ruin, but I will unite it. Nothing else needs to die further if it has already died. Nobody else needs to lose their life."

Frostmourne's runes dimmed again, and Arthas let his arm fall limp as he addressed her more acutely. "I thought that I needed to save everything from this Scourge, and when I took up Frostmourne, I wanted to save all life from death. It's grander than that, Jaina. I realize now that there are larger beasts at work, and I must save Azeroth from everything else. No free force of Gods or men can stand against the tide. I will not let it ruin us, so I must destroy us all. In death, we are one."

"Arthas," Jaina spoke again, this time through gritted teeth. There was an insistent prod at her shoulder, and a whisper, but she shook it off without consideration. Those she'd brought with her pressed, and she knew she hadn't the time. She could only hold them back at the peril of the world, and this man she'd loved was no longer the same. He could never be deserving of Azeroth, and they would help ensure that he never left this place. "The united forces of the world of Azeroth have already judged you, and I knew it would be me charged with carrying out this sentence. I hereby sentence you to die, by whatever means are at my disposal. Heroes of the Alliance, please begin."

The laugh, cold and high, filled the chamber of ice like a gong's beat. "You've delivered more to me? You must see then, I have a whole world to conquer! Two dozen simply will not suffice! Well, show me, champions of the Scourge! Show me the force that unites you, and throw it at the Alliance!"

Jaina stood fast, as did her champions twenty-five, and yet she felt something stirring within her that she couldn't explain. It robbed her of her concentration, and she felt her concentration snap. She raised her staff, and in like measure Arthas drew forth Frostmourne. "Champions, I hope you won't disappoint your King." As he spoke, Arthas stepped backward, and his champions followed suit, in perfect unison. None stammered, none slowed; their pace was robotic, fluid as one.

Jaina's own were not so resolute. A ripple ran through the group, not so much able to be seen but felt. It was as if their spirits were testing the possibilities of the better part of valor, so strongly that every one of them could feel the others' apprehension but not evident enough to really be seen in their faces, or the raising of sword and wand.

"My Lady?" a voice beside her asked, a tiny thing, a hopeful thing. Jaina smiled, but it was hollow, and sorrow stole through her breast like a bad memory. Josalynn, such a young thing, was the exact opposite of someone like Arthas, and as Jaina turned to look into her eyes, that fact solidified evermore.

She couldn't be more than fifteen or sixteen years of age, and it was at Jaina's most insistent request that she not accompany these heroes into this place. Yet, Josalynn had already faced the Scourge, and time and again the young prodigy had thwarted the Lich King's plans. She was almost legendary among her peers, this tiny girl, and her powers almost intimidated Jaina; her potential was staggering, even compared to the Kirin Tor and Jaina herself, and her accomplishments had solidified the Alliance's position in the Howling Fjord.

Jaina had taken the girl under her wing, if only in a modest sense. Her first visit to Dalaran had been met with a mugger who'd roughed her up, and despite the power Jaina had felt in Josalynn even from their first meeting, that ruffian had managed to blacken her eye and lay a dagger against her throat. He'd walked away with almost seventy gold pieces that day, accordingly all of the girl's savings from her contributions and her late father. Jaina herself had exacted a toll from that thief, a toll that still to this day held him in a manner of service; at her other shoulder, that rogue stood bearing thin-bladed scimitars, their keen craft reflecting the hard-working passion in his eyes. Yes, all of that seemed to have happened in another world altogether.

No, Josalynn was no warrior. She held a very particular spot in her heart for all of life, and had she not pursued the arts of magecraft, Josalynn might well have been the most zealous of druids. She had been clear that no life was deserving of a show of her power, an honor that had stayed her mighty hand that day and in so many other ways. Jaina feared what the girl had had to go through, even just knowing the mortal races as she did.

As her ward looked to her again for guidance, it was clear, in Jaina's eyes, that Josalynn was terrified. She'd spent her whole life fighting against this menace, but the ripple of uncertainty that had so afflicted them all almost seemed to personify itself in her overlarge, deepest-blue owl's eyes. "I can't do this."

"Jaina, take your eyes off the board and you will die sooner," Arthas taunted, but Jaina's eye narrowed and nothing more. _A pathetic goad, Arthas. I never took my eye off you._

"This is the end, my dear," she spoke, seeing the possibility herself, a world without the horrors of the Lich King. "There is nowhere else you can be, and nothing else you can do. I will not leave you here alone, but we need you. We need every one of you, champions of the Alliance!" she proclaimed to the gathered heroes, who all shouted their resolve and affirmation. "Azeroth may fall, but not this day, not this way. Not if I still live."

"Touching words," Arthas spoke, and she watched as he strode away, toward the Throne. Bound above it, she could see the weak, limp body of the paladin Bolvar Fordragon, and it tore into her like a knife. Bolvar's head rose, his arms held to either end and clasped in metal cuffs, and all she saw was defeat. Arthas may not have realized it, but with the fall of the Horde champions also came the cracking of Bolvar's resolve. Of this, Jaina was certain, and she could feel his unbelief as plain as her own trepidation.

In the time she'd been occupied, the Horde's risen champions were now fully arrayed before the stairs up which Arthas now walked, defending them but not advancing. Arthas was waiting for her to make her move, treating her like the white king on a chess board. She grit her teeth, and venom rose with a nauseating hate. "Arthas, turn and face your death like a man, you coward!"

This drew his attention, but he only stopped walking. He did not turn to face her, and indeed did not threaten with his blade or his soldiers either. "Arthas Menethil is the name of a dead man. Arthas Menethil is the name of a lover, a true believer, a coward and a weakling. You address the King, Lady Jaina Proudmoore. You've passed judgment upon the King? No. A King doesn't receive judgment, but grants it. Approach at your peril, flee, or watch your trial unfold, and die by the hand of a true hero of Azeroth."

Frostmourne rose toward Bolvar then, and Jaina's heart beat with the rhythm of a war drum. "HEROES, STOP HIM, NOW!" she shrieked, her sonorous words tearing the fabric of peace that had existed between the ranks. She could see the bulwark of the new Scourge champions, had seen it from the beginning. To have acted immediately would have spelled disaster for the Alliance, so close to the cliff's edge and so disorganized compared to their enemy. Enough time had passed. Enough resolve had been redeemed. She was finally in a position to send her troops into the fray, and no longer could she reason with him. Arthas Menethil, the Lich King, had to die tonight, or he never would.

Her forces rushed the opposition, bringing shield and sword to bear, axe and mallet up, and the slightest trip or stumble on the ice could very well have resulted in failure. Josalynn stood by her side, one violently-trembling hand raised, veins burning with the violet arcane. Jaina's own raised with practiced calm, and three large shards of ice started to form in front of her. A duo of warlocks, two shaman, a priest and others joined, charging spells that merely waited for a clear shot to release. Jaina only felt horrible that she knew so few of these heroes by name, and that there was a solid chance she'd never get to hear their voices, their thoughts, one to another. They were all people, all heroes, and yet history might even forget them this wicked night.

One that she did know, a paladin named Ruby Mistweaver, was the first to connect sword to axes, as she met the mighty Tauren warrior who'd taken Tirion's body away head-on. Her sword rang shrilly, but the advantage was clear right from the start, as first one heavy double-headed axe swatted the blade away and the other tore a trench in her cheek. The blood shot from her in a terrific slash, and the wound was sealed as she was tossed through the air. In a moment, Ruby was back on her feet, clearly shaken but not broken, and drew forth again for a piercing charge on her enemy.

Jaina needed an opening, but her own troops were in the way, so she edged along, the crystalline ice shards splitting into six and following her. Her eye inevitably fell upon the rogue, Avery Hayes, and her face screwed up in a measure of respect and sadness. He was out of his element, fighting toe-and-toe with a shaman whose attacks were a blur of lightning and steel. He scored several quick hits with his slashing weapons, but nothing stuck; the shaman, enhanced with his own powers and those of the Scourge, did not even falter, and soon was parrying and recoiling the seasoned, hardened and humbled rogue. Two hand-axes came down then, and Avery's face exploded in a scene of gore far more vile than any she'd seen on her way up the Citadel's winding way. Lighting poured out of the red, an explosive hit, and Jaina roared in grief as the man fell.

Shouts rang out along the battlefield, but above all of them were the tormented cries of a particular paladin hanging overhead. Jaina did not let this deter her, though, and loosed three of her bolts in a fury that could only come from this kind of war. As if in slow motion, the first axe tore up through her bolt, shattering it, and the second through her second. The shards kept going, though, and dozens of spots of blood squirted from the shaman's body a split-second before her third bolt tore through his skull and threw him back with tremendous force to land on the Throne's stairwell.

A shadowy priest garbed in dreary mists from her side of the field threw a bolt of dark energy, almost at random, but it cleared the distance and struck home on a dead-eyed, young paladin, and her hand was blasted to pieces before them both, hovering as if stuck to the air around her. It quickly reformed, green energy drawing the pieces back together, and she shrieked an inhuman banshee cry and charged, flanked by a death knight cloaked in a bloody aura and wielding a keen great doubleaxe, and a wolf whose fur bristled like steel from its body. A Blood Elf bowman turned dexterously, firing once and then twice, and both bolts flew true across the distance right at the priest. At the last moment, though, they were deflected by an invisible shield, and clattered harmlessly to the ice.

More broke through, those not needed to hold back her modest group of melee harassers, and she knew she needed a plan. Suddenly, Jaina felt a spell overhead and one beneath, and the ice writhed in a flaming orange that existed for her heroes who'd stayed to a range but not for the world itself began to materialize. It was a hell-fire, a warlock's most loved soul-burning spell, and she knew that it could devastate them. "GROUP ONE, PRESS THE FLANKS!" she cried. "GROUP TWO, HARRY THE HEALERS! THREE, OUT OF THE FIRE!"

Her people listened with a military cohesion, and nearest her they spread out, not needing to be told twice how deadly fire was. She herself let burn through her the frosty energy of which she'd become so very acquainted, and a great wall of ice rose four, then eight, then ten feet into the air. She hadn't secured the flanks, but that would give her a moment to let her people out wherever and hold back the clearer threat of an advance assault.

A thunderous volume broke from above, and she let the magic seep into her again. However, she knew almost instantly that she needn't worry about a hurricane; a brilliant shield of golden energy snapped into existence a moment before the first lightning bolt struck down, and as it hit the shield both reddened from the impact. Otherwise, she was unharmed, and not in danger. Casting the power into another spell, she aimed to thank the disciplined priest for his support later.

She conjured then, and just above the (now) two pools of hell's furious fires spawned ice-fall areas of effect. The ice fell and melted, and in so doing quickly put out the flames of her weaker conjurer opponents. At that moment, she heard the cries from her third group, and turned to the left to spot that vicious young paladin and her entourage. She needed to free their movement, and that meant the icy wall would have to come down, but she would use it as a weapon too, she thought.

Or, as the righteous cries of a familiar voice told her, she wouldn't. She turned just in time, flicking her wrist at the right moment, and a barrier of frost spawned to deflect a mythical piece. The Ashbringer tore through the thick ice like a heated blade through bare flesh, making much the same noise, and her own shield held just barely against the powerful Holy Light of that pure weapon. In the same instant, the blade dulled, but the terrible blue of Tirion's eyes stuck her in shock for a moment too long. The Ashbringer rang out again, this time dulling from a glowing gold to a resonant purple-black, almost crying out in pain. The icy wall shattered and clattered to the frozen floor as her concentration snapped.

She felt the blade pierce her stomach far before ever feeling the pain, and screamed out as she threw a raging flame directly into those blue eyes. Tirion flew backward with the force of an Archmage's cast, through almost to the fighting at the Lich King's stairwell, and Jaina took this moment to launch a grand assault on the King of the Dead.

A massive fireball, even more pronounced than the first and growing to thrice the span of her hand from palm to fingertip, was loosed. Yet, with impossible speed and strength, a single character leaped from the fighting, enshrouded in an aura of green. The fireball smashed against it, throwing the body at the Lich King but doing none of the damage she'd intended to the target she'd elected. Arthas was shoved, but he barely minded; instead, he grabbed the bony neck of the Forsaken death knight, hefting it backward into the fracas once more, and continued his work with Bolvar.

"ARTHAS, FACE ME!" Jaina screamed, but in a moment Tirion was back up to her, and the Ashbringer was back to bear once more. She expected the pain, and even had to step back with the force of his connection, but none came. She might have been bleeding, but she had total faith in the healers she'd brought. They were keeping an eye on everyone, and she needed to focus on where her talents could be most useful. At this moment, she knew she was the only one who could fend off Tirion, but she needed to be rid of him as soon as she could be.

A cry from her right brought Jaina to stammer, but she held her own against the master fighter with only her staff and wards, drawing back to her fight as quickly as she could. She watched a body fly across her periphery, and a double-set of daggers flourish as an orcish female leapt overhead, driving them down. She couldn't keep an eye on who'd fallen, though, as she parried and evaded all of Tirion's heavy slashes and stabs. She didn't even notice the tears in her eyes until after she ducked a thrust, drove her staff into the base of his chin and sent the paladin reeling.

He recovered, quicker than she could, and yet as she watched he flew backward with an arcane force. "Joss!" she cried, and sure enough, Josalynne ran forward and held out a harried hand.

"My Lady, I'm sorry," she squeaked, and Jaina could see a face drained of color and soaked with tears. "I got scared, I - I hesitated, and people are dying, and it's all my-"

"Enough!" Jaina cried, but at a glance to her delicate, child's face and hurt eyes, the mage softened. "You're here now, and that's all that matters. We need you, Josalynn. Help them."

Tirion raged, and Jaina looked up in time to see his tantrum. Laying on his back, he raised the Ashbringer, and then with his other hand swatted it down and bound it. "GET OUT OF MY HEAD! GET OUT OF MY HEAD!" They were the shrieks of a helpless dog being beaten. He was a schizophrenic, warring against an antithetical personality.

"I need you to prepare your strongest spell, Josalynn," Jaina spoke. "And kill the Lich King with it. I won't ask you to hurt another person, ever, for as long as I live. Please," she finished, staring into the owl's eyes with hope and desperation. "You are the only one."

Jaina stood, and as she did, she could hear the cries of warfare once more. Her mind was back to seeing all, and she saw it all. Blood and arms lined the floor, and the fighting still persisted. She was certain that there were at least five less on each side, but the combat went on unhindered, faster and more expertly-danced than any war stories she'd ever believed. These were not fighters. These were not mere champions. These were the most elite, the most prominent, shunned by some and envied by most, outshone by none.

"Kill me, Jaina," Tirion spoke, in control of himself again but only slightly. The Ashbringer's crystal shifted between golden and black nothing so quickly it was dizzying to watch, as if it couldn't tell whether the lightest or the darkest of souls beheld it. "While I still have him stalled. Please."

"Lady?" Josalynn asked, but Jaina waved her off; she was still pleased to see the charging of an arcane wave of energy, bands of the stuff weaving together like waves riding the air.

Jaina drew another icy shard into existence, and she watched as Tirion's face drew into a smile once more. "My Lady!" a sudden shriek announced, and Jaina turned then to note the very same.

Bolvar, atop his King's throne, was no longer Bolvar. The laugh that met her ears was not his, but she could feel that laugh in the flame-veined man she saw now. "Please, no," she whispered, a moment before Josalynn screamed and loosed her weapon. The arcane bolt was less a bolt than a fount, and Jaina knew it would hit. If any of his kind broke through, the Lich King would still feel the fullest of its wrath. Jaina took to the scene as well, and a great dart of ice shot forth, riding the tail of the arcane blast.

The Lich King removed his helm them, and in his left beholding that and his right holding Frostmourne, she saw Arthas Menethil the Prince of Lordaeron. She wavered, but her bolt didn't, and a second before impact the King threw his arm and armor upward with great power. The arcane smashed into him, sending him reeling with a force out of this world, and he drove back like a doll tossed across a room. Smashing the Frozen Throne directly, he shattered the ice with a sick bone-crunching and drove back to the rear ice wall that marked the end of his Kingly platform. In almost-simultaneity, the icy shard drove through the smile he still wore and the wall behind it, and he hung there like a scarecrow of old, pinned by her fierce magic.

In the next heartbeat, the chains binding the paladin snapped like metallic twigs, the sharp ring cracking through the Throne room and sending the fighting into a lull, then a halt. The champions of the Scourge just stood there, blank slates, humanoid nothings, but the forces of the Alliance that had survived the encounter gathered together. Jaina noted that Avery Hayes was not among them, and watched two others as they stumbled closer, one a bear that looked to be bleeding even still as it closed the gap with great effort. Heals went out, but they somehow were not as effective as such things had been when the heroes were freshest to the fight, and though the wounds sealed the pain remained on the faces of all of the heroes.

Jaina could barely have eyes for them, though, as transfixed she was on Bolvar. Something was dangerously wrong here, even though his gaze tore through her with the ferocity of a warrior of the light, and a light that did not glow a brilliant blue. He stood in the air, holding the helm of the King of the Dead and a blade she and the rest of the world had come to know as Frostmourne. He did not smile, or frown, or anything; his face was stoic, as his burnt neck surveyed them to what surely must have been great personal pains.

"Your King is dead, heroes of the Horde and Alliance," he spoke, his voice a mighty boom. "Warriors of the Alliance, I release you from your contract, barring your offering to ensure our continued good faith and honorable dealings. Warriors of the Horde, you must remain here, for there is no other place for you."

He turned in Jaina's direction, and she thought she could see his resolve, his honor and his power. She thought she could see the old Bolvar, but his words were nothing if not a testament against that potential truth. "The world is over. I saw everything he saw, Lady Proudmoore. But that is for another time. You have a place to be, very soon, and I have a Throne to establish." He looked down at the runed blade, Frostmoune. "I understand, now. There must always be a Lich King."

Jaina stepped forth, sorrow in her eye, and Bolvar stared her down the moment she did. "Bolvar, what are you talking about?" she asked, feeling the tears at seeing him moving again but terrified for what he was. If nothing else, how was he alive, standing motionless in the air? Was Arthas finally dead, and if so, why couldn't she believe it?

"The world heaves with my torment," Bolvar spoke quietly. "And the world will burn beneath the shadow of my wings."

"Bolvar!" she cried.

"My son, a terrible darkness returns to our world," he continued, his words spoken conversationally but carrying like proclamation. "Jaina! It will not happen the same way as it might have, but they are coming back! You have several places you need to be, but I think home is the safest place right now. Remember that home is not where you leave your hearth, but where you set your heart. Theramore is not going anywhere that its people cannot protect it, if you protect its people."

"Please start speaking sense, Bolvar!" she cried, but she knew that this was well-past such a time.

"Great things are to come, Jaina Proudmoore. We will need all of the Alliance heroes we can find to fight against them. Please take those who've survived, and leave those who are dead. That is your payment for your lives, and it is the only thing I will accept." Jaina's eye was caught by movement, and she looked down to see a man thickly clad in leather stand up, holding a pair of scimitars to bear. His face was a patchwork of magically-sewn skin, hastily put together again, a true bastardization of the handsomeness it had once held. A sigh beside her told Jaina that Josalynn thought much the same, and she wondered just how close the two of them had become.

"You can release them, and we will go to prepare together," Jaina spoke, her voice loud and commanding, but not stern.

"The dead will stay with their King," Bolvar spoke. "This is not a body that can be released to the rest of the world, and not a face I can show another. There is no cure for a death caused this way, Jaina, and you are well-aware of this. The Horde champions have died this day, and that is how the world will know of them. The Alliance met with losses, but managed to lay a decisive kill on the Lich King. Bolvar," he spoke, with a humorless chuckle, "Bolvar Fordragon died at the Wrathgate, and Tirion Fordring gave his life to defeat the Lich King."

Jaina could not retort. However, she needn't. "You must be ready, as I will be. Leave this place now, and this land, to the Jailer of the Damned. Northrend is no longer the place for you, or for any living creatures. It is a hold only for the Damned, and they must survive in rumination. The world will become far less interesting up here anyway, after the first wingbeats rend the world."

Jaina tried again, but Bolvar did not respond. He hung there, in the air, sprawled as though the binds still held him despite them hanging limp on the pillars to either end. She called out to her heroes, whose understanding may well have been less even than her own, by their faces. "Come, heroes. It's time to leave," she spoke, almost a whisper but with the echoes of a gunshot. It was morose, lost, and she needed the closure here that she knew she would never receive.

With a flick of her wrist and a simple tapping of the magic within, she reopened the very portal she'd used to enter this place before. It would lead them down to Light's Hammer, the outpost established by the Argent Crusade and the Knights of the Ebon Blade in the entrance hall of Icecrown Citadel. She was absent a just conclusion, but she was sure that Bolvar would have no more of anyone here. He was not the same, but she knew his honor was still intact. For that reason, she knew she had to leave him.

As the heroes stepped through the magical door, knowing it would take them away from here forever, Jaina faltered. She let Josalynn, the last to walk through, leave her with a reassuring pat on the shoulder and a comment she couldn't even remember anymore.

"Bolvar, I won't ask you how you know this, or even what most of it truly means. You are keeping secrets, to what end I cannot know. Just tell me where it's going to happen, and I will make sure that everything is in place to deal with it."

She turned then to look into his eyes, and when she did, she saw a contingent of risen warriors, of the Horde and Alliance, and they stared back at her with flaming red eyes. None of them moved, but they were in perfect raiding formations, split apart equidistantly into four groups. A shield-bearing Tauren and a Blood Elf paladin were by themselves at the base of the Throne's stairwell, their bulwark defending the place with the most vigorous servitude, and a powerful-looking death knight that reminded her of a time of war was alone at the forefront, staring her down as he leaned on his great weapon.

The man who'd called himself the Jailer of the Damned, Bolvar Fordragon, lay in a sheet of ice on a Throne fit for a King of the Dead. Frostmourne, laying outside the ice and on his lap, was dormant, its runes no longer glowing and its once-perfect sheen marred with blood and shreds of cloth. She almost felt its dullness, its exhaustion, and wondered if she could and should break it. Seeing the champions of the Horde and even a few of her own Alliance forces, in their steadfast and peaceful service to their Jailer, she thought against it. Such was an act that would have to wait; even with all of her warriors, they would be on the losing side at this point. She lamented letting the souls continue in their torment, but resigned herself to choose another time for that battle.

As she turned to leave, however, she heard her reply. _It's happening right now, Jaina,_ the voice told her. _Everything is happening right now. If I told you about this, you would lose sight of that, and if I told you about that, you would lose sight of everything. Those who command time understand why it should never be mentioned._

She did not turn around, but bowed her head and closed her eyes in silence for a moment. "Goodbye, Arthas," she spoke. "Goodbye, Bolvar." And in the next moment, she walked through the portal, and Icecrown Citadel's Frozen Throne was left to its quiet once more.

 ** _-LK-_**

And so it stayed, for hours or months or years, its denizens could not tell. Ice licked up the plated boots of a lithe shield-bearer, along the roughened gloves of a green-skinned sneak-thief, over the delicate cheek of a carefully-preserved paladin. The scene was so picturesque that it may have been that way forever, immortalized in ice the same way as had been the whispers of death from a place concocted by Titan hands. Yet, it was fragile as a sculpture of glass, and the slightest shift in the earth might bring the whole thing crashing down upon the Throne's floor.

That was a room for the wicked, the twisted and the stolen. A King sat in that room, with fiery veins burning him not despite, but in tandem with, the frozen meteoric shower raining down sadly on those that had been lost to Frostmourne. In another time, another place, another dream of a world yet, he also sat upon a throne that was absent the chill of the north and the burn of dragon's fire.

It was here that a King met with his kind of evil, that a Jailer resided over the affairs, that a whisperer survived under his lord's nail, and that an ephemeral peace was held by an assembly and its Councillor. Upon a podium sat four, those the Jailer considered with great effort to be of potential value this day. There were no stands for speakers, no amplifiers or any amenities that would make the sound carry; the Jailer didn't need that for his words to reach every soul, less in this place than even the world of Azeroth entirely.

"In this world, there must always be balance," Terenas Menethil spoke to the congregation, leagues of seats for his voice to carry over nodding as one. "The undead are evil, of that there is no doubt, but the living may yet be even more evil than that. There is no way to tell. Why, then, must we keep the living and not the undead?"

"Because it is the way of nature, and in nature, there must always be balance," an exasperated voice spoke, a green-skinned Orc spoke, his face a-paint with white like a skull and his neck spangled with a cord of bone. "Terenas, must you keep preaching these things to an old spirit?"

"I believe that honor would tell that story itself," Bolvar Fordragon returned, his shoulder-length brown hair matted to his face as though he'd been running a gauntlet and sweated it all over himself. His burning red eyes still bored through the mess, however. "The living have a choice, and the undead do not. I would think that undeath is really just life without the ability to choose. Even if that choice is the wrong one, the right to have it should be upheld."

"You two could just talk one another into bliss," the Orc said, shaking his head. "I wonder where the other guy is. He had some ideas, and there was no question that he thought through none of them. The world doesn't need more idealists. It needs more people willing to follow their mindlessness, because that's how everything comes into the Void. That is how everything becomes nothing, and nothing is truly a sight to behold. Have either of you seen it?"

"To be honest, Bolvar, I second his sentiment, but only as to where Arthas is," the fourth member of their party finally spoke up, and Tirion Fordring stood from a seat provided to those on the podium. "He's dead, I suppose, but what happened to him, Bolvar?"

"That is none of your concern, fallen," Bolvar spoke quietly, but then his voice was never quiet. "Arthas being dead is a choice, like everything else. Whether he chose wrong or right is not up to us. It's simply a choice he made."

"Yes, do shut up, Lightborn," the Orc spoke. "At least the Jailer and the King have something to say. You haven't stopped asking about little Arthy since you got here. We should be considering the next, 'righteous' move for the Lich."

"The next move is to hold the undead, and keep ourselves away from the living!" Terenas retorted.

"You need to learn where the phrase 'Lord of the Dead' comes into this game, King," the Orc returned, with a rude gesture.

"Enough." Bolvar's word was calm, and as quiet as he could make it, but it was law. "I think that's all I can tolerate of you, Ner'zhul. The same for all of you. Leave." And so it was that, in a single word, the assembly faded all at once, and the trio of minds that had so plagued Bolvar with their ideas and their selfishness were nothing but new memories for him.

As he sat, alone and in the dark with closed eyes, Bolvar pondered his own question, one which the spirits could not answer. There were few who could, for it was a very particular question. "What can change the nature of a man?" To this, he had no answers, but he knew that it was possible to do. He knew this, because Bolvar Fordragon had died above that icy Throne, and what was reborn into that body was not the same thing that had inhabited it previously. Perhaps he should bring Tirion back to guide him? Or perhaps Ner'zhul had actually been on the right track, and there was some deeper meaning to his mutual prison with the undead that he needed to understand.

It was a very particular question, and only one lord of death remained to answer it. There were few who could even understand it, and fewer still who knew the other side. "There wasn't an escape in the last life, or in this one," he spoke to the Void. "Where does the answer lie?"

Silence was the only answer he claimed.


	4. A Simple Man and His Demon

**Memories of Never, an Unofficial Warcraft Story**

 **Chapter Three: A Simple Man and His Demon**

 _ **-DW-**_

Neddard Garthe was a simple man. 'Neddy', to his friends, didn't cause trouble, or dabble in anything overtly dangerous these days. He sometimes made allusive suggestions to find danger, to seek it out, but to any who knew him, it was all bluster and brash and he'd most likely just wander town to find the nearest cheap thrill instead. He rarely even communed with demons anymore, after the incident with the Lich King; save, that was, for Aless, but she could hardly be considered demonic.

They sat in the basement of the Slaughtered Lamb tavern, alone as daytime was the slowest part of the day. A firepit snapped at embers behind him, and save five empty tankards and two others of varied fullness, he might have been getting smashed in his own home. The succubus could drink almost indefinitely, though she did seem to become rather merrier the more she downed. Neddy had only managed half of his first, but he knew his tab would definitely reflect a much higher ratio of personal intake; it reminded him heavily of when he'd bought the party's beers, and his guild had said "Drinks on Neddy!" so many times it might as well have been their battlecry.

Memories of his guild's fracture following the Lich King's defeat at the hands of one of the greatest heroes of the Alliance suddenly swarmed him. It wasn't anything particularly negative that had caused it, even as he thought about those times in his most sullen of moods. It was almost a lack of purpose. They'd all remained tied to the same guild, or had the eighteen who'd survived the encounter, but like that hero they'd all just gone in different paths, down their old lives' routes.

Jaina hadn't spoken with any of them since, to Neddy's knowledge, even to the girl who'd apprenticed under her. Not that such things were his worry, but it was just an interesting recollection when one didn't have the money for a good drink or needed to describe what had unfolded without actually disclosing anything.

He'd been contacted by Ruby Mistweaver three days ago, and she'd been one of the most persistent in asking those sorts of questions. She'd touched his hand, and every word she'd spoken had been an enunciation, so that her vividly-red lips curved with each syllable, and he'd just told her everything she'd asked to hear. The long-standing belief was that women couldn't play this game of warcraft, but that was completely absurd; they could play, and play it very well. But she was a busybody if there ever was one, and Neddy knew that sort of knowledge couldn't be safe in the hands of the new guild master.

That matter irked him, yes, but today it also happened not to be the biggest drain on his mental faculty, in part because he'd not told the entire truth. The blue eyes were a given; they were all seeing the Lich in their own respective mind's eye, and in their dreams and nightmares. Every one of them saw something else, though, like a prophecy but greater, since everyone knew 'prophecy' was a nice way of saying 'hope with a modicum of evidence'.

For Neddy, it was the cataclysm. Or perhaps, it was more similar to the end time, after the cataclysm. He saw a dragon impaled on a spire in the Dragonblight, and all around it were the last vestiges of the last heroes of the world of Azeroth. He saw a group seventeen strong, and he saw a dead succubus he'd once called Aless, and he saw a man he'd once known as Neddard Garthe laying beside her, also snuffed of life. There were seven others, but he didn't know their names and their faces were unfamiliar. They must have been recruits, picked up in the City but not nearly hardy enough to survive this trial.

In this world, he was not Neddard. He was Neddy, but not who he was. He always started the dream the same, staring down at his own dead body, seeing the small drizzle of blood run through his ginger hair down the small canyon of wrinkle near his nose. His teeth were broken in the front, and he smiled up at the black skies above with the kind of grin only the dead could make, stupid and devoid, empty and soulless. In his hand he beheld a grimoire, but it was unlike any he'd ever seen. The surface was a brilliant golden light, so bright that he couldn't see what might be written beneath it, and he was never able to pick it up. Anytime he tried, a searing fire burned through him, woke him, and the pain would ofttimes persist after his waking. The last time he'd tried, a day before Ruby's visit, it had crippled him for several hours. As luck would have it, though, he'd made quite a particular bond with Aless the succubus, and she'd taken to nursing him back to sturdy health.

And so she sat with him, and held his hand so very similarly to how Ruby'd done when she had manipulated him. She spoke slowly and clearly, too; he knew he'd regret having kept her alongside him during that meeting. "Are you okay?" she asked. "Are you thinking about . . . things?" Aless had always been terrible at innuendo, even worse in her jealousy, but he knew precisely what she was thinking. _The envy of a succubus knows little contest._

"More like nightmares," he spoke with a grin. "Like the one I told you about, the one I've never told anyone else."

"Oh, that one," she mused, but her voice sounded neither sullen nor disinterested, nor even relieved. In fact, she seemed almost invigorated, as the conversation cycled back to her and deviated from anyone or anything else. _Vain little creature,_ he thought. "I've heard loads about the cataclysm. There was a con," she tried, then her face screwed up in concentration. "Con- _vin_ _t_ -chen? About it, yes. Thousands were there, some even dressing for the occasion before they knew any of it was going to happen."

"Convintchen's are good places to get insider information," Neddy spoke quietly. "Really, I wish I could have gone there, but I don't live near enough. Damnable places anyway, too many zealots and devotees. Good thing we don't have to attend in order to see the changes, though it does prepare us for them. Still, sometimes it's more enjoyable to be surprised in this game of our lives, and navigate around something that has already come to pass. Existence is a pursuit of the unknown and the variant, after all."

The succubus stared at him through this, her head gradually leaning to the side and her eyes furrowing in contemplation, and as he concluded she continued to smile. _She doesn't understand half of what I just said,_ he noted with an inner laugh. Despite everything, his summoned demon wasn't nearly as bright as a living Human, but there were certainly other redeeming qualities that made her his preferred companion.

She was considerably abnormal among both Humans and her own kind. She wore a crystalline white dress that, even in the slight firelight, brilliantly ignited along its length, cut just low enough to entice. Illuminated as such, her dress outlined a voluptuous form, thin and lithe in all the right places and more voluminous and pronounced in . . . all the right places. Cascading red hair fell down her narrow shoulders and around twin horns which spiraled upward in alternating purple and blue rings. The dress had been custom-made to accommodate for her silvery wings and uncommonly-light tail, and she seemed to adore it as she brushed a wing absent-mindedly over the fabric.

"It doesn't make much sense," he said, "the dream. I suppose Ruby-" He, however, didn't finish the thought, as Aless' eyes narrowed and a dangerous growl started to contort her lips. "Bitch though she is, I understand the need to talk to all of them and learn the story." Aless went back to monitoring the fall of her dress over her shoulders, but it was somehow a little more chill. Women were always so adept at conveying emotion in simple gestures, Neddy thought, but succubi were masters. He'd never seen so many covetous screams of rage uttered so calmly, so innocuously as she appeared, and so many open threats told as with the single eye that kept itself trained on him. _You always knew how to scare me near to death, you lovely demon,_ he thought. In all contexts, though, that's how Aless was created to be, and it was tough to fault her for her own nature.

"I don't think you should do that," she spoke, and her voice sounded hurt and childish, but carried those screams, those threats so well.

"Probably not," he agreed calmly. _Hell, it's tough to talk to you, love,_ he thought, but his facade kept. Not a muscle flexed or strained to show his guilt, and his nonchalance was unparalleled. Never was a warlock raised to Kingslaying quality that didn't have the charisma to commune with his own demon. "Besides, if I really cared that much, I'd just let one of those idiots gather the truth, and have you 'persuade' it out of them. Looking back was never my strongest suit, though. I think that we have a pleasant future of dragon-slaying and demon-hunting ahead of us, enough to ignore the past completely."

"If you want to kill demons, I wouldn't object," Aless spoke. Neddy'd never learned her history, but she'd always been shallow about mentioning anything about it. It was clear by her reactions, though, that she wore some transgressions from those times on her sleeve, and had adamantly refused dismissal on a couple of occasions. He took her worries with more than a grain, but less than the seriousness he'd attribute to a flesh-and-blood Human. As such, sometimes he'd directly gone against those wishes, if only to prove to the demon who was in control.

"I'm sure you'd join me on that one, and there are more than enough demons in the Outland." He took a moment, took a swig, and the frothy layer that coated his moustache afterward elicited a snicker from the succubus. She leaned forth and wiped it away lovingly, licking her hand clean before downing the last of her own drink. "So let's do," he spoke, watching Aless' cheeks brighten a little from tipsiness. "I'm sure we can make more of a reputation out there while we wait for the world to fall apart again."

The clomping of footfalls down the stone stairs made him sigh. "Looks like Three's trying to make this place crowded anyway," he added. "We're leaving." He stood up, and the succubus hurried to follow suit, stammering only a little bit and giggling.

"It feels like I'm walking without feet," she spoke, taking a couple of comical steps before getting her bearing.

The newcomer emerged down the stairs, and Neddy waved inattentively. "Hail to you," he drawled, beckoning Aless. However, her eyes were slits, and her lips pursed to reveal extremely sharp teeth. Her wings beat weakly and her tail was outstretched threateningly from a slit in the dress, as if a cat who'd been cornered. As Neddy took a closer look, his hand immediately went to his dagger and grimoire, both hanging from his belt.

A young woman, barely away from girlhood, stood blocking the stairs, Elven ears perked as if hearing some voice only she could perceive. Wearing a light traveling cloak with its cowl limply draped over her back, the woman looked remarkably well-built beneath. She beheld a warmaul over one shoulder, and hung on one hip almost sensually, dully aware of the world around her. Neddy stared at her for a few seconds, buzz in his head telling him he knew her, and then his mind suddenly clicked on where.

"Neddard Garthe?" the woman asked, her voice austere and her eyes a filmy blue. _Vicious monster,_ he thought, remembering who this was precisely. In life, they'd called her Christina Archer, and some say there never had been a more devoted paladin of the Horde. He thought there'd never been a prettier dead girl.

"Kill her," Neddy spoke, and Aless needed no more prompting before a whiplash-tail shot out and gripped the woman's arm. Archer looked at it curiously, and Aless shrieked her rage as she coiled the spiked tail around and tore. Blood spurted out, but Neddy could already tell that the fight wasn't going his way; instead of red, it was yellow, as he knew Aless' to be. She cried out and retracted her tail, massaging it as Archer tore the rest of her cloak off to reveal a turquoise-and-black, rugged set of plate armor of a make that Neddy had never seen before.

Aless' tail healed in seconds, and her supernaturally-beautiful face was trenched with lines of violent rage. Neddy felt his connection with the fel energies, and his veins burned as his mind's eye saw the door. One hand went up as Archer stared back into his eyes, her own burning a brilliant blue now as the powers of the Lich King swam through her body.

He started charging, and in just a couple of seconds he held a ball of shadow in his hand. From her first step, it was clear Archer was going to make a beeline for him, but in that moment the ball was loosed and connected with explosive force. Dark energies tore away at Christina Archer's chest, leaving nothing but a hole where the bolt had connected, right beside her heart. She looked down in shock, before her hand flew to the injury and shadows crawled over it to hide the damage. Where his shadowy bolt had been a thing entirely comprised of darkness, however, Archer's mending was brilliantly red like fire, surrounded by shadow. This licked through the wound and sealed it in a moment, and she snorted a challenge.

A thin purple band suddenly shone forth from Aless' outstretched hand, and Archer stopped in a moment. Neddy grinned, waving his hands in complex gestures as they burned various stripes of green, black and violet. Each time he applied one of these gestures, Archer's body overtook the hue where he'd directed it, and in each area a filmy steam arose from the spells' effects. He was rotting her body, her soul, and her mind with his curses, and he vied not to let the monster near enough him to stop it. As such, he readied another spell, this time to control her while she withered.

Suddenly, though, she was free. Aless' channeled spell faltered, and Archer's hammer was drawn forth. Neddy loosed a fear, but recoiled with bared teeth when he noted its complete lack of effect. Aless shrieked, lashing out at Archer's face. The paladin ducked into a slide, neatly avoiding Aless' attack. A dagger was thrown forth from the ground, catching the succubus right through her jugular, and she rose fully to her feet, already expertly spinning a pirouette with hammer extended to its fullest height. In the next moment, she slammed it into Aless' forehead, smashing her against the wall with a resonant _crack!_ sounding through the basement.

Neddy turned to the stairwell, hearing shouting from above. The guards must have heard something, and without being able to inflict terror on this monster, he'd have little recourse if she closed the distance.

His arm was grabbed just then, and he turned in time to see the mallet-head driven down on his forearm. He couldn't believe it, but through all his years, he'd never had his arm broken. The pain was intense, incredible; he saw the black creep along his vision, and his screams sounded through his skull. His hand caught fire, but it was a dull thing, like seeing a distant lantern burning across a misty swamp.

He loosed without thinking, and hit the paladin square in the face. Her blue eyes shut as she beat at her own face, and from the corner a tail lashed out to grip her around the neck. "Hold her!" he screamed, standing again and feeling the mighty burn in first one arm, then the other, as he readied a fireball. He was on the second step before he turned and loosed, and despite the obvious damage he smiled as Archer was thrown away from him. _Die, you Lichborn shit!_ he thought with satisfaction, as the paladin screamed and writhed in the inferno her body had become.

Aless had loosed her hold, and lay bloody and dying against the far wall. "Run," she managed, but he didn't just yet. Instead, he held out a single hand to her, weakly, and in the next moment clenched it. She shrieked, but it was a light sound, as her essence was crushed in his magical grip and condensed into a single green stone, which flew toward him a second later. He smashed this in his one hand, fine dust hanging in the air as he sprinkled it over his injury and even heard the bone snap back together. He screamed some profanity, but wasn't sure exactly what he said as the damage was mended.

Archer stood again, and Neddy turned to leave. As he did, a couple of Stormwind City guards hurried past him, and he launched himself to the side and let them pass. As he sprinted the rest of the way upstairs, he heard them engage her, and a man's cry was gurgled by what he imagined to be blood. _If she's doing so much damage to me, they don't stand a chance,_ he thought. _Have to find that wonderful busybody, bitch though she is._

He was on the main level, carefully taking note of how empty the place was. A longtable had been shoved slightly, likely when the guards had rushed the place without care for obstruction, and one of them had perhaps tripped up on its corner. Otherwise, it might have been closing time, and the barkeep might have just been in the other room gathering polish to help cover the dings and digs in his tables, to make the joint look less seedy than it clearly was. Yet, the bar was to the left, and atop it was a dead man who looked like he'd tried to jump it and run, and been smitten before he could more than mount the piece. His head was a scene of red, not smashed entirely but clearly the victim of a maul. Blood ran down both sides of his skull, and bits of bone poked out of either side as Neddy ran by him to flee the place.

A sudden quaking threw him down the front stairs and into the Mage Quarter, and he stumbled across the alley-like walk and into the wall of another building. He didn't like any of where this fight was going, and slamming his hand to his chest he began to invoke the fel energies within. _Sometimes, there's no avoiding it,_ he thought, as he resolved his spell and felt the pierce of a driving bolt into the back of his skull. Blackness crept in quickly, and his hands clenched, and he smiled as his body died.


	5. Assassins, Drunks, the End of the World

**Memories of Never, an Unofficial Warcraft Story**

 **Chapter Four: Assassins, Drunks and the End of the World**

 _ **-DW-**_

A Human paladin by the name of Ruby Mistweaver stood before a comically-exaggerated Orc-faced training dummy, slack-jawed smile mocking her just as much as the limp shield and readied but unwavering wooden blade, but such poor care for battle announced that she had already won their confrontation before it had begun.

Her face was torn with rage, the muscles and veins on her neck flexing out in fury, and with a primal roar she charged the dummy again. She swung, but the dummy turned at its waist to block the hit with its shield, which also twisted in its 'hand' to deflect her greatsword. Again, and again, she struck, a sweeping under and then a mid-thigh side-swing, and she did connect, the blade making a dull _THUNK!_ as it drove into the wood. Despite this, though, her fingers tightened and her teeth grit even harder, and she remembered the face of the Tauren warrior.

And suddenly, there was no joke-worthy Orc face. There was no training dummy. There was nothing but a mighty greatsword and two giant axes, a lock of her traitorous amber hair obscuring the sight and a defiled black pool beneath the feet from a Lich whose name was not this warrior. Suddenly, all that there were, were two glowing blue eyes behind a tusked faceplate, and the distinct, miasmic stench of the undead.

And the greatsword came down, and the left axe rose to meet it. The other circled around to her side, but Ruby was ready for this ruse. At the whispering of a spell, the Light reacted, and she caught the shaft of the blade in a single, immortal hand. She could feel the huge axehead pressed against her side, but it could do nothing to her while she lay in her protective bubble of invulnerability. This she twisted around, but the warrior leaned out with a boot, and she had to release the axe in order to dodge the kick. Her greatsword came loose of its grapple with the left-hander, and she side-stepped to parry another neat swipe with that hand.

This time, though, she drew the greatsword down in a cut, sparks flashing from the strength of the two weapons' drag on one another, and in a flourishing move cut sidelong in a crouching slash. This seemed to give the Tauren pause, and she took heavy advantage, launching one hand toward her opponent while speaking in a religious argot. In a moment, a bright flame shot down upon the Tauren's skull from above and seemed to placate it, if only for a moment. Ruby took that moment.

Feeling a tremendous power surge forth, she knew that this was how she should have adjudicated the monstrous warrior before. "Now, die," she spoke to the nothing, and struck.

Great shards of a wooden shield burst in all directions as it was shattered by a templar's deigned verdict, the judgment of a paladin, and in a moment she could hear the _cluck-cluck_ ing of the man behind her. Breathing heavily, she nonetheless reddened in embarrassment at the damage she'd caused; the dummy's arm was shattered down to the mid-forearm, and the thing swung limply on its waist-hinge like a metronome. It was clear she'd broken it beyond immediate use, and it would only be helpful to newbies training with practice swords from this point until mended.

Her greatsword's tip fell to the ground beside her, held only loosely, and she felt it tear away from her in a moment. "Commander Mistweaver, looks like you may have dulled the edge here," a loose, bumpkin slang washed over her, the voice simple yet buttery.

Ruby growled, a slight but fierce sound. She'd always hated that voice; it was weak, the voice of a little girl. "It's pathetic," she managed. "I'm not as weak as I was that day. I'm not weak!" Her voice was slight, and her tone as low and venomous as she could make it, but it still reminded her of some of the girls she'd seen parading about the Park in their pink frilly dresses and wearing the gold necklaces _she_ had probably made for them herself. Neither the callouses on her hands, nor her defined musculature, nor even the blood she occasionally drew from biting her lip in frustration could stifle that puny, useless girl's shrill.

"I would never assume such," the man spoke, his smile always friendly and his hair bright and unkempt as if a reflection of his personality.

"Rowe," Ruby spoke, notably and intentionally not addressing the squire by his rank. Rowe found it something of an honor to serve a paladin of the Light, but she didn't consider the accomplishments of the master befitting a man trying to weave his own pattern in the tapestry of life. As she wasn't even the first paladin he was squired to, it was not her place to make him her servant. "Without Kierra Carlisle, I would be dead right now. Without me, she did die. Why don't you hate me for that? I've never lied about that to you, but you know I'm the reason. I told you to leave, and find your own place. Why do you still stand here?"

"Because I don't believe you." Rowe didn't sound doubtful, and his tone didn't hide the pain of denial either. The man was so resolved, Ruby could see the conviction of his own future building in his studious eyes. "She mentored me, and I felt like a true hero when I got to walk alongside her to unmask Lady Prestor, but even then I didn't have to be there. I joined you to help, and to learn. So don't be so stingy to employ me, Commander." Ruby stared him in the face for a full ten seconds, and he met her gaze to the moment, before she nodded. He set his hands on his waist and leaned in for emphasis, as if seeing the bigger picture for the first moment. "You're a hell of a lot more stubborn than she ever was, Commander, but you have just as much fire. Maybe a little too much," he added, nodding to the dummy. Ruby turned to look, and laughed as her eyes fell over the Orc face, the shattered arm and the unstable bobbing of the dummy's torso in the thick breeze coming over the city. She didn't know why, but such destruction for petty reasons was hysterical; it was like a conquered fear, or the dealing-with of a tough emotion that had eluded her through punched tables, and screams, and tears in the night.

Then, she heard something new. "Coming through, move, move!" followed by the squeaking of a wagon wheel. It wasn't a rude voice; rather, it was the harried tone of a saleswoman with a strict deadline to meet and less than no time for niceties. Ruby turned that way, and was both surprised and not in the least shocked to see that it was the very same person she'd joined the military with in the first place.

"Might I ask you to hold this, Rowe?" Ruby raised her blade between her index and thumb, realizing that it wasn't worth too much care now that she'd totaled it.

"'Course, Commander," he returned with a bow and a quick acceptance. Ruby held him back with a clear palm out, and walked due east, right into the path of the wagon on the road. The wagoner stopped herself quickly, and Ruby flexed her plate-gloved hands and closed her eyes, waiting to find the words.

"Beg pawdon, miss'm," the girl spoke, from beneath a cap of white like a baker's hat without the fat high-rise. It was so traditionally poor that it was almost a mockery of Ruby's intuition. "U'gent deliv'ry ta the Commandah of Essie-Seven." She spoke quickly, very perfected in the poor tongue, but then again, when they'd met Ruby had always known Raquel to be silver-tongued.

"Do you see Kings and Lords often, little lady?" she asked politely. "Some people even dream of them. Bet it makes you toss in your bed all night just knowing they're still out there, and that you might have made a mistake when you didn't finish your job."

"I'sahry, miss, but I don't get ta seeing Kings much 'tall," she replied. "Though there was this one time in th'dead of cold, but Stormwin's warm, an' the mind is clear."

"You sure about that?" Ruby asked quietly, taking a step closer so her metal leggings rapped against the caravan. She leaned closer still, and the rogue stood her ground bravely. "Your eyes look rather blue, like you're hiding something true and terrifying."

"An' do you hide sum'pthin', miss?"

"Oh, I think we all hold a piece of the puzzle. A great warrior has been drinking himself stupid after he admitted, and I led Ned like a lamb to be slaughtered. I know sixteen secrets, but I'm very curious to hear what you have to say about that. With your input and that of an elusive reindeer, I think we'll piece this whole thing together." Ruby smiled despite herself. _Still able to play the game, big sis?_

"Miss'm, methinks yer convictions is in the right place," Raquel the wagon-girl spoke. "But plannin' fer destruction's be the only plannin' some people do. 'Sposing it can't be helped. May I be about?"

"What's the delivery?" Ruby asked. She was disappointed, but Raquel had told her everything she needed. _I guess you still know how to be distant._

"Fruits of m'labor," Raquel returned with a smile. "Checked at the gate."

"Smells clean," Ruby spoke with a grin, wrinkling her nose. "Sorry things can't be any other way."

"Hm, they had their time," Raquel said, and Ruby moved aside to stand by Rowe, who bore a look almost as confused as any of the eavesdropping SI:7 members whose job it was certainly to decipher special cants. Ruby was rather pleased with herself, but the last words they'd exchanged dug a little deeper.

"Commander, beg pardon, but what the hell was all that?" Rowe asked.

"Failed again, Rowe," Ruby spoke in resignation. "Let's go to the damn Pig and Whistle."

"And leave the mess?" Ruby looked back at the dummy, sighed and resigned again.

"Fifteen gold," she spoke. "It can't be worth more." In a flourish, Rowe drew forth a purse, and shook a few dozen coins out, stacking and replacing until he had fourteen gold, ten silver. He handed them over, and she nodded to the nearby trainer. In a moment, the exchange was made, Ruby's dejection was back, and Rowe's optimism carried them down the beaten path and back onto solid stone walks again.

 _ **-DW-**_

"The marks of a spymaster don't usually wear themselves, miss Raquel," spoke a goblin known only to her as 'the Shiv'. Raquel knew he was a high-ranker for the elite intelligence agency, second only to Mathias Shaw, but she couldn't recall his actual name. Calling him the Shiv seemed to be getting her by, though, at least in this conversation. "Are you certain that this is one?"

They were in his chambers, decorated with a drapery of roguish black-and-yellow, in medial-quality cloth of a make that looked silken, but likely was far cheaper. The infamy of Goblins knew no bounds, she'd heard, as far as spending a copper to save a silver. A collapsible table and chairs had been settled here, and there looked to be little else to furnish the place other than a bowl atop a small stand, inside of which a rare Zangar trout swam. The Shiv sat, but Raquel stood out of respect for her position; he'd not invited her to ease, so she didn't. Instead, she dropped the body of a reeking Forsaken clothed in shredded robes of grey, rich lavender and pockmarked gems of green.

At the moment, the Goblin stared down the twice-taller Human spy with scrutiny and a little humor, but his eyes were dark as they always tended to be. It was clear that, if Raquel were joking, the Shiv would find it very unfunny indeed. "Beyond any reasonable doubt, sir," she returned, standing at military attention, her stance precise and rigid. "He read my mind, made me feel things and see things. He had taken the form of Lord Gregor Lescovar during my reconnaissance. I-"

"Wait, wait, the traitor?" the Goblin interrupted. Raquel nodded respectfully. "I thought some petty member of SI:7 already dealt with him. Gon' need a talk with Mathias about the values of his agents. Like these new kids just burn through their quests without fear of real-world consequences. Back when the Burning Crusade-"

"Sir, apologies," Raquel tried, knowing he was going into dark territory.

"Right, right, we live in cataclysmic times, but we don't want all that's happened to happen again. Our world must always move forward. Proceed, agent."

"Right. I dispatched the Lord and his contact personally, sir, and was ambushed in the adjoining hallway by a man of such seeming likeness I'd never have told them apart. Tirion himself confirms the death of Lord Gregor, so there can be no mistaking this."

"Except that you have only a Forsaken cur to gift me with," the Shiv replied, his lip curling but nothing else. "Either way, I suppose, the undead ones shouldn't be in my city. N-now you say, he 'read your mind'? What did you see, did you feel?"

"I'm not sure how to say it," Raquel spoke after a pause. "As if . . . but that must be wrong."

"Agent, we don't have time. Tell." The Shiv was clearly upset, but Raquel felt the fear building, and for the second time in her life tears welled in her eyes. She didn't notice them until they were there, and they were gone in the wipe of a sleeve, but a pair of burning red eyes replaced them for the most split of seconds.

"I relived the worst moment of my life," she spoke, and the words echoed off the quiet walls of the Shiv's private quarters, which had doubled for them as a debriefing room. "Then, I felt the smallest prod at my mind, and my body got sluggish. He was still there. Not in the world, but my head. I only saw a dagger at the last moment, and I fought against him. I didn't even think about it, and that's why I think I managed to kill him."

The Goblin stood then, nodding to himself more than anything, but he stared Raquel in the eye without a word for a long while. Her discomfort must have shown, though, for he stopped in time. "I don't believe that this was a spymaster," he concluded, nudging the Forsaken corpse twice lightly. "Still, how it got in here is rather alarming. It's not like a priest to go invisible. I've never even heard of such a thing."

"A priest, sir?" Raquel asked, eyes narrowing at her commanding officer.

"Yes, that's who this is," the Shiv replied matter-of-factly. "I recognize the face. Tabbris Cole. It's one of the few Horde champions that fought the Lich King so very long ago. Quite the flaunt, especially to the agents it killed."

"But how could you possibly know that for sure?" Raquel asked, perhaps a little loudly. Certain images were still fresh in mind, and at the mention of the Lich King she felt the eyes watching the back of her neck. "Sir!" she added hastily, with a new salute.

"Because it failed to kill me," the Shiv replied with a smile. "And apparently, I failed to kill it, the last time it tried something like this. Not making that mistake again." He bowed low, and in a gesture faster than she could see, a dagger was in hand. Three sharp stabs to the skull, producing squishing sounds but no gore, were his only statement to express his plans, and as he stood he flicked the dagger downward, piercing the undead creature's heart in a picture of assassination perfection. "You know as well as I do what being mind-controlled feels like, miss Thorpe. It's nothing us sneaky types aren't unaccustomed to."

"This was different," she spoke, quiet now. "It felt more real than any battleground the Horde and Alliance met in. More real than arenas for sport."

"I tell you what, agent," the Shiv continued, nodding at the wall behind her and not looking Raquel in the eye. "Send in the two guards outside of my door, and find Mathias Shaw. I'll make sure to look into your suspicions. Until then, your mission is complete." A pause ensued then, and the Shiv gave her a peripheral glance. "I do believe that conclusions can be made from your discovery, and that they are dire indeed. You are dismissed for the day. I'm sure the Pig and Whistle will help you forget; it always does for me."

Raquel saluted again, a bit shakily, and turned on heel to depart. As she did, though, the Shiv spoke up again. "Oh, and please don't leave the city," he spoke, almost as an afterthought. She stopped in her step for a moment, but he said no more. _What should be so important that I would have to remain here? Why is he acting this way, but dismissing my theory?_

Her answers to these questions would remain elusive, but a new question would arise the moment she opened the door into SI:7's main chamber and felt the tremors.

 _ **-DW-**_

"The rats are running away," an old drunkard named Bartleby spoke, to his room full of nobodies. The sorry, sullen saps who made the Pig and Whistle tavern their home barely looked up, but he was mildly concerned. "Orkus, lookit that."

There was a man sitting beside him on a stool, and for the sake of things Bartleby didn't know whether or not the man's name was Orkus. The other, almost stupid with his tipsiness by now, didn't seem to mind.

"Who cares, yeh shorry tank," the man spoke quietly, his face buried in his own tankard. A Draenei by birth, his hooked nose piercing, pale blue skin and elaborate flat-headed facial crest made him look like a hammerhead shark that had accidentally been wrangled by a very unlucky fisherman. Bartleby saw a ripple of muscle beneath his shabby clothing, though, corded by years of hardship, and felt pity for any man actually stupid enough to say that to him.

"Rats run from threats and weather," another patron's voice echoed through the bar. "Could it be more green falling from the sky?"

"Rats run from everything!" Orkus snapped, and from a clasp on his hip the Draenei unclasped the only item of seeming worth on his person: a very elaborate, crystalline hammer, glowing a pinkish purple at its head and laced a dull gold-and-black down its silver hilt, in twin spirals. It seemed almost impractical to swing, a little overlarge for one hand and too stubby to grasp in two, but Orkus expertly drove it across the room without looking. A rat that had since been scurrying away squeaked shrilly and scooted, a sound that elicited many a laugh from the half-dozen or so other patrons of the Pig and Whistle. The hammer slid to a halt at the wall, the sound of its connection too light to be heard despite the throw. "Now shut up and git me another shtinkin' beer!"

As Bartleby looked up, though, he noted with some humor that there was no innkeeper to provide the required beverage. "Guesh we gotta get our own, there, Orkush," he laughed, and hopped the bar to look for the tap. As he did, he thought he heard a whisper, and thought he knew what was said.

"Why is he calling the Kingslayer 'Orkus'?"

"I don't even know who the hell that is. That Bartleby's always been out of his mind."

"Not yet, but shoon! Very soon!" he shouted back across the bar. He found what he was looking for in a moment. "Free drinksh on this guy!" he shouted with a twin set of thumbs in his own general direction.

Just then, the door opened, and a quite-decorated paladin walked through with a steady-eyed, beaming man chattering lowly beside her. The immediate marks of a Commander, those of a golden fist underlined by a single bar and set against a royal blue backdrop, sat emblazoned near where the metal peaked at her neck, and she wore it without any seeming care for those around her. All eyes followed, in part because she was the only woman to have walked in for several days but also because full-fledged combat-worthy paladins almost never cared to come here. Most denizens of the Light had the church or even a seat at King Varian's table to get their drunken buzz; heavy respect went out to the paladin, and so comments were kept as quiet as possible.

"Well, that one's a pretty lil, innit she Orkus?" Bartleby whispered, filling his mug again.

"Oh, aye, pretty but forceful," Orkus murmured. "Takes her life too serious."

"Barkeep, two rounds!" the call came from that table, from the man who'd accompanied her. She didn't even look around; the paladin sat rigid like a board, in a pose Bartleby considered perhaps the most uncomfortable and at-attention he'd ever seen of anyone. Perusing the Pig and Whistle daily, he'd seen a lot of military stiffs walk in here, and it only took several drinks to calm them into a woozy slump. He felt that she wasn't here to get drunk though, and further got the impression that she was just wasting time.

He poured two glasses, of a cleanliness like clean, and smiled. _Like you're a real bartender, Bartleby,_ he thought. Suddenly, the earth rattled beneath their feet, and Bartleby had to grab the bar to steady himself against it. "Oh, Light, it's the green fire!" a shriek went out amongst those gathered. In a sudden instant, the tavern was amok with panic, and the patrons who weren't hiding under unscrubbed tables were racing out the door to see what was going on.

Bartleby, however, watched Orkus. The wizened drinker wasn't starry-eyed like he'd expected, though his silvery eyes didn't have pupils and so telling if he was focused was a bit difficult. His brows were narrowed though, his fists balled, and his face was a slit of pressed lips and clenched cheekbones, as if he were gritting his teeth and building determination to do something particularly hazardous. "Orkus, buddy?" he asked quietly, but Orkus did not reply; instead, he stood, walking calmly to the until-then-abandoned hammer sitting on the floor opposite him, and picked it up with an unexpected grace given his size.

"Always the little hero, aren't you, Ruby?" he asked, his eye turning back to the table the duo'd sat in before. Bartleby noted how barren it was, and that he hadn't even seen them leave. "How drunk are you, Bartleby?" he asked quietly, and Bartleby chuckled heartily.

"Not drunk -hic- enough," he spoke with a laugh, hopping the bar again so carelessly that a couple of patrons' tankards were caught in his sweeping legs and tossed. He ended the awkward move with a flourish, swaying only a little, and bowing. "What ish required of the great Bartleby?"

"Don my armor," Orkus spoke. "Plate don't usually wear itshelf. Then we might be able to make a hero of you yet." He snickered, and Bartleby's smile caught. "Or at the very least, they'll find a shtone to immortalize your legacy."


	6. A Long Night Begins, The Dead Stir

**Chapter Five: A Long Night Begins**

 **Part One: The Dead Stir**

 _ **-LK-**_

The Banshee Queen laid eyes on the King of the Dead as the earth rattled and rumbled, and she fazed not. She could feel a deep evil, one that permeated the frozen floors and tugged at her consciousness like a prodding little boy. Broken fragments of the evil Lich King's armor lay discarded on the icy way, scattered here and there amidst the stains of his victims. There would be no end to things if he stayed alive, in any form; the evils would persist, and the reek of his presence would never leave this world behind.

Six icy pillars rose into the sky all around her, and stationed about them was a single soldier apiece, in morbid display like trophies won during a particularly showy contest. A Tauren stood nearest her on the right, giant axe grounded and held in two clasped hands in a mockery of knighthood. To her left, an ominous plate-armored Dwarf stood with his poleaxe slung over one shoulder, just as lifeless but almost alive as she was. The frost crawled through his bloody beard like a swarm of glistering red nightcrawlers, but his stern grin implied that such didn't bother him at all.

Others stood elsewhere, a Gnome wielding dagger and scepter, a Human in gilded platemail, a druidic moonkin with its staff firmly strapped to its back by the ice, and she noted with some disdain that one of her own lay like a corpse at the foot of the most distant pillar. Jerrit Salem. She'd requested him specifically as a specialist, knowing his mastery of the magical arts could be put to good use in the fight. As he was now a dead specter of the Lich, she knew she'd chosen wrong.

Sylvanas, as they'd called her in life, marched the final steps onto the platform proper, and a few more at that. She couldn't bring herself to come closer, though. Something held her back, a force not unlike that of a Lich's command, and through the chill air she could feel his life, his death, his essence. _Arthas._ He was here still, she knew, in a form. She sensed him as truly as if he stood right next to her, but he didn't stand anywhere close.

In fact, he hung, limp as a dead man with a javelin-like splinter of ice holding him in place where the glaciation did not. Ice crept up his extremities, his hands and feet, and held him prisoner with his limbs outstretched like chains, binding him to this place of death. _In death,_ she thought with some satisfaction, _you'll forever live with the dead._

But they weren't dead, she noted. On the Frozen Throne itself, another sat, one so burned beyond recognition that she wondered if it was possible for him to have elected to sit of his own volition. Chances were higher that he was placed there, but she knew what was happening too quickly. Frostmourne, the blade that had caused this hell, sat upon the man's lap, curiously free of the ice that bound him. With eyes burning a brilliant yellow and veins pulsing a dull tangerine here and a searing gold there, it seemed he was unaffected by the chill around him, like he could fight it off with a touch. Yet, here he was, taking up residence in the Throne upon which only a Lich could sit. He might as well have been Arthas, and with that sword on his lap, he was.

"You are nothing," she spoke, her voice ethereal and morose, echoing through the infiniteness of the peak of the world. No response was forthcoming from the Frozen Throne, nor from its flame-wreathed denizen. She stared him down with rage, but something else welled within her then, and her gaze fell to the ice plateau beneath her feet, washing over the storied stains of gore that had once pulsed warmly through heroes' bodies. Now, a thin coat of glistening frost sat over each, immortalizing the sacrifices of fighters long dead. The effluvia of lost souls still poisoned the place, though, and with a sniff she could smell their torment.

Taking a few steps to the side, Sylvanas lined up her shot by eye. She let her bow down slowly, nocking with delicate precision before drawing back as silent as the grave. She held her pause for several seconds, the nock held firmly between her index and middle fingers, before she let it slide gingerly out of deadly form. She lowered the bow to her side, breathing heavily before gritting her teeth again and raising the bow. _Nock, shoot!_ she urged herself, and she did just that.

The arrow flew through the air, and in barely a second drove through Arthas' throat with a slight shattering sound that might have been an explosion in the quiet, dead Throne room. A tiny hole punched through the soft part of his jugular, hanging limp as it met resistance in the wall behind the Throne. No blood emerged, and the gentle falling of a light snow began almost immediately thereafter, as if to tell her that there was no reason for her to be here. The dead were already dead, and the world was burying them; she was inessential to that process, it told her.

Or, perhaps, she told herself. She'd done nothing to help the heroes of her own and of the Alliance, and she knew that several of her own had taken part in the fight. She bared her teeth again though, growling a low echo, and readied another bolt. This time, she aimed it at the fiery man in the block of ice, the true form of the Lich now. She stared him down, muttering a cant that caused her arrow to burn a deep purple, tapping some Shadowy power as a spherical projection burned at its tip. "Die," she murmured, and as she loosed she noticed the man's eyes burning brilliantly, far more than they had.

The arrow struck true, exploding in a blackish energy, but she knew instantly that it'd had no effect. The arrow itself was snapped, and rebounded, clattering to the ground pathetically between her and the Throne. She noticed a bit of shadow around the man's forehead, but there was no other sign of damage, and his eyes dulled as she felt the presence of another beyond them.

"Arthas!" she spoke fiercely, loading another arrow. "You're not dead. Neither am I. What use is there in stalling our fight?"

"This is not the place for you," a voice called out, a voice that sounded from all around, as if every falling snowflake were amplifying it.

"You're not Arthas," Sylvanas spoke to the wintry world, only relaxing her grip to gain bearing. She felt something was amiss, and the stench of the Lich still infected the place. Yet, there were others, many others; it was as if she was in a room of thousands, and each one stood exactly where the fiery man sat. "But he's still here."

"Yes, I do believe he is," the voice spoke, and Sylvanas' arrow was back up.

"Then I will not leave." She drew it to full, muttering another spell all the way. "Sacrifice that monster, and I will have no more need of a visit."

"I fear that that will be something of a problem," the voice insisted. "I knew he was here still when I chose this mantle. I cannot find him at this time-"

"Then I will get rid of the entire problem," Sylvanas spoke, and directed her shot accordingly. It loosed, and Frostmourne was consumed in a moment in the explosive power of her bolt. Yet, true as when she'd shot the fiery man, no noticeable damage was inflicted, and the blade continued to mock her with its continued existence.

"I can't allow you to do that, Banshee Queen," the voice told her. "There are those in whom I need to confide, still laying in this blade. Aside, he does not dwell within."

"Then where is he?!" she shrieked.

"I ask you one last time to leave this place of the damned," the voice proclaimed, and in response Sylvanas drew another arrow. "There is somewhere else you need to be. We will meet again, and you may speak to Arthas at that time. When I am through with him. Not now."

"There is nowhere more important than here," she spoke with a growl.

"Everywhere is more important than here!" the voice snapped, all-encompassing, loud and fierce now. "Anything is more important than fulfilling a grudge! Why do you all do this to yourselves? Hate will not stand against the coming tide, and that seems to be all that you children employ! Forgive him, Sylvanas, as I have, and move toward a brighter future for your people. Hate cannot fight hate, it just fuses and mutates and breeds further hate." A pause came then, and the words stung, but Sylvanas grit her teeth and loaded her bow.

"Hate is the only thing he left for me," she spoke, and shot.

 _ **-LK-**_

Josalynn Emsworth watched the magic play out idly, hands clasped over a slip of paper and elbows standing rigidly on the Archmage's table. Every now and again, she would flick her wrist in boredom, and the magic would do something else, but for the most part she just eyed it as it played within the transparent sphere of force she'd conjured.

She had been vying for an audience with the Lady of Theramore for a good couple of weeks now, and finally she'd been graced with a return letter. The fact that she'd been waiting for three hours now hurt, but she would sit here all day if it meant she would see Jaina Proudmoore again.

In front of her, she had written into existence a complex array, consisting of several different schools of magical prowess. She'd crafted the outer shell first, to contain the power of her own talent, and barely she could see the edges as a fraying of reality's air, a sphere of energy that cast the very tiniest of shadows around itself. Light diffracted around it, as if it were too anomalous to even permit light itself, and a much more notable circle of shadow decorated the far wall, blotting out the "Missing Person" posters of various magi and apprentices who'd just vanished in recent times. Josalynn knew how dire the situation was looking, but if ever there might be a bait tactic, it would be in kidnapping the most powerful denizens of this world. Someone was trying to make Dalaran's finest sweat, and it had thus far worked like a charm.

Inside the sphere, the action was taking place. Upon a map she'd modeled so closely resembling Kalimdor that her talent might have replaced cartography as a profession, Josalynn was writing x's and circles, as if playing a more advanced version of the children's game. There had been a reason for it originally, something to do with the Orcish battle plans as uncovered by Varian Wrynn's people, but there was just as good a chance that they were lies and tactics of fear-mongering as that they were truthful. "Hate seems to be all that you children feel," she spoke to the rest of the room, losing interest in her map in favor of the light-show she was drawing beside it. Arcane symbols drew themselves endlessly, meanings of no particular sort to her bored mind, letters designed intricate as flowing handwriting but conveying no thoughts. "This is what we did to Arthas, and what he did to the Horde's heroes, and what they did to our people in the Skybreaker, and what we did to them after the Second War. It's always going to repeat, because we're not sane enough to be righteous."

A knocking at the door caused her to erase her own work in a heartbeat, and the sound it made was so gentle that, were she someone else, she might not have known it to open at all. "What is the bad news?" she asked, rather shocked by how sullen her own voice sounded. It had never been that way before.

"The Lady Jaina apologizes, but she must reschedule her meeting with you," a woman's voice proclaimed, in the soft-spoken tone of one used to conveying orders but never giving them.

"Does she know how long I've waited?" Josalynn asked.

"I - I don't believe so," the response came. "She has had to leave on urgent business."

"When?"

"A - very recently, milady," the speaker returned shakily. "I would have come sooner, but there were urgent matters, and I did not know."

"I understand," Josalyn spoke. "Please inform the Lady Proudmoore that I no longer require her assistance, but that her consideration has been appreciated." She stood to leave, clenching her fists, and upon the table she flicked the now-ball of paper. "I suppose this is fine, also."

She then took her leave, and did not look back.

 _ **-LK-**_

Bilronora and Yeaelleas stared at the looming Icecrown Citadel, knowing that their time had come. They were going to take it again, and this time, they would take the crown and the blade as well.

It had been three long years since the Lich King had died. Neither one of them was convinced that he'd fully been destroyed, though; too many loose ends remained untied. There was no closure to such as that event, at that time, in that way. The Lady Proudmoore had killed him, but then his tortured prisoner had taken up the mantle and shooed them from the scene. Since, there was no telling what Bolvar Fordragon had been doing, and through it all, they'd bided and built and harried the undead, in the hopes that they would get another chance.

This was their chance. Bilronora was a zealot, yes, but she paled to Yeaelleas Silverwalker in this regard. It was his perhaps not-so-humble opinion that Bolvar's place on the crown did not do the Lord of Death justice. None but a true master of death, a transcendent of death, should command death. At least, so he profusely espoused.

She looked up at him, his Vrykul-horned helm a glittering obsidian in the firelight shining down from the top of the Citadel's daunting stairwell. He stared straight forward, determination like a fire in his blue eyes, his Night-Elven-blue neck muscles twitching in anticipation like ripples on a sea as it becomes a storm. "You're showing your emotion again, love," she said, turning to face his direction.

"It's the most I've craved anything," he returned in a rumbling, gravelly voice like an earthquake erupting from deep in his chest. "Nothing is more important than this."

"That can be said," she spoke, in the tone of a somber, melancholic lute. Her Draenic tail flickered lightly as if in the breeze, but here so cold and so north and so evil, there was nothing but complete stillness.

"This is for me," he continued, his eyes sweeping where his arms did not. "I will become the God of this world, and it all starts in this place."

She could see something in his eye, his stare. It wasn't the fires of determination, though those were present in spades. Neither, she'd guess now and learn later, was it a fury at having been robbed of his opportunity by Lady Proudmoore and the Horde champions who'd been turned. The gaze was too manic, too desperate and not quite sane enough for that. It was obsession. It was his obsession to be the best, and she knew that at this he'd always failed. Even in their once-complete group of twenty-five, Yeaelleas had never bested more than twenty of them in combat.

She included herself among this number, and, seeing that look in her lover's eye as he turned to her, this fact terrified her far more than the thought of the Lich King. "I will always be here for you," she spoke, but his smile did nothing to warm her to him. She felt a chill run down her back that had nothing to do with Icecrown's ill-tempered frigidity.

He placed a palm on her shoulder plate then, his touch chill as the grave and empty as the Void. "You took the Oath of Blood, my fine love," he boomed, "for your mother and father, who died in that war. It was a war against this Lich Puppet, a war you entered same as me. You forsook the Light to kill the darkness, even as your parentage fell beneath the shadow. Now, we cannot advance until you do. You should show the world just what a God can do, and place yourself at the vanguard of my army."

"Yes, my love," she replied, leaning close for a kiss. It came, though she hadn't expected it would, but as cold as it was she'd rather it hadn't. Yeaelleas had not been warm for far longer than she remembered, but she still needed him entirely. She still needed everything about him. He was still her world, and his would be the world she would fight for. Why this was, did not matter; all that mattered was his dream.

As she thought this, a tiny voice seemed to scream at her from within her skull, resonant only as the kind which shouted from the bottom of an ocean. It was there, and the echoes sounded through her very being, but it wasn't quite _there_ enough to really hear its words.

"Now get your ass to the front line," he said. "I have a war to win."

Bilronora did. She heard the little voice again, but she did without complaint. Still, she asked herself, _What are you saying_?

As if in response, a jab of pain tore through her. She kept her composure, but she let out a sharp exhalation of strain that she tried to pass as a grunt, as she raised the weapon atop her back. Whatever had happened, Yeaelleas should never know, and as she turned to look back to him with a smile that caused her mouth to twitch and her eyes to narrow, she noted that he was paying her no mind at all. His eyes were only to the Citadel, his new home.

She bore the axe before her with a measure of pride, her gloved grip tightening as if to protect it from those who would be privy to stealing it. She knew one Lord of Death who'd tried, and that was how she'd ended up in Yeaelleas' army rather than as a rotting corpse in Dalaran's famous oubliette. No, the axe seemed almost soul-bound to her, which fit, as the work that had gone into its manipulation was exquisite, time-consuming and extraordinarily dedicated. She loved it more than anything, and it was closer a child to her than any mortal being ever could be.

She'd called it Shadowmourne, as a cruel pun on a crueler parent weapon, and she remembered that it had once been meant for a far more noble purpose than this. Light blue runes decorated a fine, shadowy steel axehead, and its serrated blade emitted an eerie deeper blue hue, almost mocking the chill of the grave that blades like Frostmourne had brought into the world. An elaborate goat's-head pendant clasped the metal to the sturdy oaken handle, and the piece was clamped top and bottom by a primordial saronite, a synthetic superiority to the Lich King's very armaments, and she'd seen it on many occasions snap an opposing blade of the inferior base substance without contest.

It was the most powerful blade crafted in the new age, and it would not betray her to any Lord of Death. Said Lords knew as much, too.

She kept her eyes down, walking the path as certainly as an automaton, as lightly as a snowflake even in her full plate. Her shod hooves touched the delicate, snowless ice with only a gentle crackle as the surface was scratched, and then rang out on the saronite steps of Icecrown Citadel like a gunshot in the silence. She wasn't aiming for subtlety - in fact, the five champions at the top of the stairs glaring down upon her army pretty well denied such tactics - but she was never one to let noise into her life. Thus, she halted, and took the ascension in a gentler step.

"A fool's audience this is," came the statement, and a burly Tauren warrior stepped forth, his morningstar and a titanic shield hanging non-combat-limp from arms rippled with muscle as thick in places as her legs. "The Lord has an audience already. You will have your turn to meet our master in whatever manner you deem fit, and he will respond in kind. Just, not yet."

"Your master is the Lord of the Dead!" came a shout from below, in the unmistakable baritone of Yeaelleas Silverwalker. He stood at the base of the Citadel still, but with his grand height of just under eight feet, he made an impressive contrast, and his burning blue eyes directly challenged the Tauren that outclassed him by superior battlefield grounds. As Bilronora stared onward, she realized that the Tauren was several magnitudes more muscular than the death knight challenging him below, as well, and muddily imagined their confrontation. It would be quite epic, and would kill vast numbers if they let it come to pass. "Come to claim his crown! Stand aside, or you will find yourselves standing no more!"

"You've brought the wielder of the Darkblade," the Tauren spoke, eyeing only Bilronora as she ascended the steps. He seemed to be sizing her up, as if debating whether closing with her would be worth potentially his life. "She reeks of the Oath of Blood." It was almost a tone of respect, until he noticed her eyes. "And a kindred soul," he added.

"You had best not take your eyes off of me!" Yeaelleas screamed from the base of the Citadel, and Bilronora, who'd almost ascended the place as she'd walked during their exchange, turned back to see him. It was the first time she'd taken a look at the army they'd raised.

Yeaelleas hadn't been interested in supporting a mortal army, feeding mouths and waiting for rests. Instead, he was more invigorated by the idea of using those that had been left over from the old days of war, bodies which had lost their animation and suits which no longer had bodies to feed their movements. Theirs was a loose collection of animated mechanical armaments, undead Scourgeborn monstrosities and commander death knights and Val'kyrian heavy resurrection units. They'd brought siege weapons that had been manufactured right here in the province of Icecrown, ballistae and trebuchet catapults mostly but sporting several fully-mechanized Leviathan-class tanks.

The army spanned the courtyard and lined the upper balustrade of walls that surrounded Icecrown Citadel, mathematicians of the smarter undead having already calculated the trajectories necessary to take the whole place down. The bulk of their army were of weak-willed undead slaves, which suited Yeaelleas fine as they were extraordinarily easy to control, but some rogue liches and wraiths lined the way here and there, eager to bend toward destruction as their vehemence wouldn't let them return to servitude under the Lich King. And, as much as Yeaelleas didn't care for mortals, he'd not been fully against the idea of the Cult of the Damned sending several dozen of its magic-infused forces to help quell the undead willpower in favor of a new Lord of the Dead. In their words, "A fallen paladin can only do so much."

Bilronora was astounded at how quiet the throng was, though. Any army made sounds, as it collectively shuffled or coughed or tromped or just shouted the enemy into daunted submission. This group was not mortal, however. It was obvious how unnatural things were, judging from the quiet.

"Forgive me, peasant Lord," the Tauren openly challenged Yeaelleas. "I forget your heroics, such notable weapons and armaments at your disposal. Remind me of which hero you are?"

Yeaelleas screamed from below, an incomprehensible jargon of cussing and rude gestures that themselves spoke more words than a mortal could. The Tauren turned from him, and eyed Bilronora. "You are Bilronora," he spoke in a conversational tone. "In life, I knew you. In death, I want to destroy you. Do you believe that this is proper?"

"I'll destroy this whole fucking place!" Yeaelleas shrieked, but Bilronora no longer paid him a mind. She was intrigued.

"I think so," she murmured, but her words elicited a nod of approval from the Tauren. "I would like to respectfully ask your name."

"And I would love to say it," the Tauren replied. "But there are no birth names for the damned. You may call me Spiritbreath, though my spirit was crushed. In that, you must admit, we are the same." Bilronora did not have words for this, but luckily Yeaelleas could speak worlds for her.

"Alright, LOOSE!" he screamed. "LOOSE, AND BURN THIS PLACE TO THE GROUND!" Bilronora's axe was at her waist in a moment, held in arms that flexed corded, powerful muscle to match Spiritbreath's.

The Tauren roared a battlecry, but a smile decorated his face also, and Bilronora bowed just before she ascended the last couple of stairs to meet his charge. Yeaelleas' battle might have been epic, but hers would be legendary.

 _ **-LK-**_

"I don't understand," Bolvar spoke to the darkness, and though nothing could be seen, the voice of Terenas Menethil returned in all its mortal wisdom.

"The sins of some have come to our gates," Terenas spoke conversationally, but every word boomed through the Void. "But this is not the end of the mortal races. These ones cannot learn, but there is hope still for the rest. You must continue to jail the undead. These ones, however," he finished, and Bolvar could see a shoulder turn as the darkness mutated, a face steel itself in resolve, and a stammer in the voice, "must be vanquished. They will never stop, and their futures are more horrid than one without them."

"I understand this," Bolvar spoke. "I just don't understand why they do this. Why do they not leave well enough alone? There is no good reason to journey this place anymore."

Yet, no response was forthcoming. Bolvar knew, even in his near-infinite wisdom now, that he could not answer questions through his subconscious that no part of him could solve. He knew that Terenas was a person, knew that the man's soul was sitting right upon his lap, but the Human Terenas Menethil had died a long time ago. Frostmourne was closed to his mind, and that was how it should remain. It kept him sane, but certain weaknesses were brought about by only having oneself to depend upon.


	7. The Siege of Icecrown, a Recording

**THE SIEGE OF ICECROWN**

 _Notes as recorded by Archbishop Benedictus,_

 _Dramatized by Bishop Farthing_

 _The Northrend Chronicles,_

 _The Siege of Icecrown_

 _Fall of the Lich King's Generals_

 _Based on true events and first-hand accounts from former mercenary guild No Redemption_

 **LIGHT'S HAMMER AND BEFORE THE SIEGE PROPER**

· Both factions enter the Citadel at approximately the same time after defeating some light resistance outside of the entry hall, soon to be nicknamed "Light's Hammer."

· The Argent Crusade and the Knights of the Ebon Blade set up a temporary camp and base-of-operations in Light's Hammer, manifesting a portal between here and Dalaran at the reluctant behest of Rhonin and the other Dalaran leaders. Suppliers bring to the Citadel the most powerful arms and armor forged in the world, to be used by the heroes of these factions as they represent the most unified, powerful people in all of Azeroth and the only true hope of overthrowing the Lich King.

· Heavy resistance is met soon thereafter by the undead forces of Lord Marrowgar, but the Argent Crusade and the Knights of the Ebon Blade hold the line successfully as Azeroth's heroes mobilize.

· Two days later, the heroes enter Light's Hammer, where a trickling number of Damned creatures continue to wage futile assaults on the occupying forces. The Alliance champions arrive first, followed by the Horde raiding party.

· The Alliance forces of the makeshift guild No Redemption engage the Damned creatures, soon breaching the front and pressing against the baleful armies of the dead.

· The Horde, under the banner of Eminence, assail a second group, and both sides push forward, openly challenging one another. The Alliance manage to reach the final chamber before Marrowgar's, eyeing the monstrosity beyond a final fighting force comprised of several undead, including two giants who press them back before they are able to reciprocate. Taking advantage of this, the Horde forces use the single-minded attacks of the undead to their advantage, slipping past and leaving the Alliance behind to deal with their assailants.

 **LORD MARROWGAR**

· The Horde engage Marrowgar, and tear through him with only minor help from the Alliance (who relieve themselves of their own threat just in time to see Marrowgar's downfall). The Horde waste no time in ascending the winding stairwell while the Alliance recompose themselves and debate their plan in dealing with their headstrong rivals.

 **LADY DEATHWHISPER**

· The Alliance forces come to meet the Horde's own, heavily engaged at the top of the stairwell by fallen clerics and death knights of the Scourge. Lady Deathwhisper eggs them on, both her own and the Horde, laughing gleefully as the violence deteriorates into death. The Alliance leave the Horde, the latter of whom are being separated and besieged by the forces they've engaged, and enter the Lady's hall to the rising of a magical, impassable barrier.

· Lady Deathwhisper summons new units to deal with the Alliance, but fresher and more in-command, the forces of No Redemption are sufficiently a match for the undead caster. She doesn't quite realize how outmatched she is, however, until after they manipulate her spellcasting weakness and let her wear her own shield out. Suddenly defenseless, she is easily beset and destroyed forever.

· The Horde fracture and flee, and are rescued by patrolling forces from the Argent Crusade. Tirion Fordring leads them, and voices his disappointment in the heroes' ability to unify against a common enemy. This has an adverse effect that he does not foresee, however, and breeds further resentment amongst the Horde forces for their rival faction. He mentions that his soldiers continue to fight further up the Citadel, on the ramparts, and urges the Horde to join them and assist both his own, and the Alliance. They agree to unite for now, however, and use Tirion's soldiers to take the 'adds' they leave behind, while they struggle to catch up with the Alliance.

 **GUNSHIP BATTLE**

· The Alliance ascend the elevator shaft via the floating platform, upon which they notice a rune spawning into existence just as the platform rises. Immediately upon cresting the rise, they note that several battlegroups of paladins and death knights have engaged the enemy riddled across the battlements. Helping these, they push to their gunship at the urging of a commander who directs them onward.

· The Horde make their way to the elevator, only to find it ascending quickly, bearing who they can only assume are the Alliance. Goruld Wolfskull thinks quickly, however, applying a Demonic Gateway that will lead him from the floor to the platform. They wait for a few moments, until the platform is fully risen and they presume the Alliance to have gone, and then use the Gateway to reach the top of the shaft without concern. After dealing with a few stragglers, Goruld uses the Argent Crusade survivors to help him summon the remaining Horde party and they make their quick, largely-uninhibited way to their own gunship, _Orgrim's Hammer_.

· Meanwhile, the Alliance are beset by undead frost drakes, and fight these off, losing much of their time and more of their trajectory to gain height on the Citadel. They are immediately challenged thereafter, but this time by the vengeful Horde gunship. After a hasty and explosive exchange of mortar and spell, the _Skybreaker_ is rend beyond function and _Orgrim's Hammer_ ascends to meet the Deathbringer.

 **DEATHBRINGER SAURFANG**

· The Horde forces dock high up the Citadel, and it is at this point that they discover Dranosh Saurfang, converted into the Deathbringer. Varok Saurfang attempts to reclaim him, and is easily dispatched. The Horde then engage in a bloody, short battle.

· The Alliance, in their predicament, are unsure how they will survive, as the gnomish engineers scurry to put out the fires and land the ship safely. Somehow, it is managed, and the broken _Skybreaker_ collapses, defeated, on the lower ramparts. The Alliance's heroes debate what should be done next, and a rift begins to form between them (particularly regarding their intentions for the Horde) when one of their number, Josalynn Emsworth, decides to teleport to Dalaran and seek out Jaina Proudmoore for her assistance. In moments, this fruitfully yields good news. Jaina arrives on the scene, along with Varian Wrynn and his soldiers. They quickly take control of the situation, and she teleports the heroes, Varian, and at his demand Muradin Bronzebeard, entirely up the Citadel to where the Horde had docked.

· Up there, they note that the Horde is racing into the Citadel proper again, while Varok cradles his son in his arms. As much as Muradin wishes to arrest Varok and take his son as a trophy of their victory, Varian steps in, denying him. "A father should be permitted the honor of deciding his son's last rites," he says, and nods respect to Varok. He then gestures the Alliance heroes onward, who need no further prompting to pursue their Horde enemies.

· Both groups meet as they enter the atrium of Icecrown Citadel, and both hear the booming voice of their foe as it tears into their minds. "Three of mine are down, and an unexpected fourth challenge held both of you back, but here you are. My champions, of the Alliance and of the Horde! Please give in to your hatred of one another, and whosoever should reach me will be worthy of Frostmourne's brand of reward! I present you with three more challenges, and perhaps an unexpected fourth – the Dragons, the Demons and the Depraved! Complete them, and conquer your enmity, and we will see who is deserving of an audience with your King!"

 **THE SPIRE**

· The Horde and the Alliance quickly engage, both one another and the Val'kyr dropping from above. The undead are quickly dispatched, but the fighting doesn't cease. Soon, the melee becomes an unstructured brawl, but it is broken up before it truly begins with the return of Tirion Fordring. "That's enough of this!" he bellows, his forces numbering fifty of paladins, clerics, death knights and (to a lesser extent) mages able to split the winded groups up.

· Tirion takes command of the operation, deeming the Horde and Alliance forces to be too undisciplined to besiege Icecrown by themselves. He coordinates a three-pronged assault on each wing, dictating the Horde to the 'Depraved' Professor Putricide and his abominations in the Plagueworks, the Alliance to deal with the 'Dragons' in Frostwing Lair, and his own battlegroup to fight the 'Demonic' vampires in the Crimson Hall.

 **THE FLESH CONSTRUCTS – FESTERGUT, ROTFACE**

· The Horde forces, begrudgingly, split from the group and race toward the Plagueworks, taking their rage out on a multitude of the final forces of undead barring the advance of the living. After dealing with several waves of this (and removing from this world two abominahounds), they bypass all obstacles and find themselves at a crossroads. Ahead is a locked bulkhead-like door, and to either end are open halls leading to twin chambers. A voice suddenly projects through the halls, the voice of a particular Professor.

· "Good morning to you all!" it proclaims joyfully. "New specimens? Yes, yes! This is precisely what I've been looking for! Go left or go right, but go both and you'll come a-walking right up the middle aisle! If you make your stay here worth my while, I might even gift you with a pretty little potion I've been saving up for the breathy windbags of the Curse of Flesh! You'll have to prove yourself worth something beyond my current creations before I let you bask in the ambiance of my finest brews, though! Go left and go right, and get rid of them! They won't do, but you? Oh, the King says you will!"

· The Horde forces, upon hearing this, immediately head in the united left direction, coming face-to-face with a massive flesh golem. They quickly engage, and the spore-based combat of 'Festergut' ensues quickly, intoxicating the raid but bolstering their immunity. Throughout the encounter, they hear the gleeful commentary of Putricide as he fiddles with schematics and mixes concoctions, oblivious to the party but including them as if they were holding a conversation.

· Festergut dies within five minutes, however, and the party quickly returns to face off against 'Rotface.' In this latter challenge, however, Putricide takes a more active approach, breeding fel-plague concoctions to stymie the party and press them to their limits. The champions, however, best their foe, and this brings Putricide to utter joy. "Oh, the King was not wrong! You are PERFECT! Come, come, the doors are open and my workshop is now yours to behold!"

 **PROFESSOR PUTRICIDE**

· The Horde champions return to the main entryway of the Plagueworks' climactic chamber, to find their way clear up to Putricide. The main doors are wide open, but they note that a second set up an ascending hallway remain shut. "Oh, no! I'm only almost ready for you!" the voice of the Professor sounds out across the hallway. "Never mind. This will be fine, come!"

· As the heroes enter the hallway and walk up to his chamber, the doors seal and they are beset by plague insects. Putricide lets them kill all of their miniscule assailants before looking back through the door, his personal experimentation self-evident on his abominable body and stitched face. "Oh, that's where I left those little guys. No matter," he continues, as he turns around with a potion in his hand. His tone deepens, his voice grows nasally and wicked, and he finishes with, "I am ready!"

· The multiphase fight has the Horde soldiers subjected to all manner of plague and poison, gas and toxic slime, and the Horde defeat Professor Putricide winded and confused. They all fall into an artificially-induced slumber, and the final words they hear from the dying Putricide are, "I'm sure you'll like the surprise. It'll be . . . foreboding."

 **THE PRINCES – VALANAR, KELESETH, TALDARAM**

· Tirion and his own rush down the hallway, facing off against the San'layn, the raised elven soldiers that had once fought alongside Kael'thas and Illidan. Despite himself, Tirion shows them no mercy, but apologizes that this is the end they must meet. All things considered, he feels their sorrow, and knows their state of mindless undeath is nothing he can blame on any but the Lich King.

· He and his come to a chamber in which the blood princes Valanar, Keleseth and Taldaram stand. Each was risen after being thwarted from their respective evils in other parts of Northrend, and to these he does not show nearly as much honor. Despite their shared vitality, he quickly spots a pattern, and his excellent leadership ensures that the group is whittled down and dealt with in quick fashion. Despite their arcane blood magic, Tirion's raw power and charisma could not fail him this challenge.

 **BLOOD-QUEEN LANA'THEL**

· Making far greater time than either the Horde or the Alliance, Tirion rushes through the remaining enemies that stand in his way, and in due fashion, enters Lana'thel's summit chamber with every man and woman in his force in tow. "I'm glad to meet the hero so close and personal," she whispers, though her voice carries like a piercing proclamation. "Please know that this is not where I envisioned we'd meet, but your name was not unknown to me even while I was alive. I don't want to fight you, but we both know I must."

· Tirion arrays his forces as Lana'thel rises from her chair, her morose eyes bending into a smile. "It's not often a human can inspire me like you do," she continues. "But when you've been on the side of the Shadow as long as I have, you learn to love it, or become its slave. I embraced it, because it was the only way. I've killed hundreds of your kind, so show me what that means to you."

· Tirion charges in first, and in the beginning, his force easily has the upper hand. However, this soon turns, as she creates panicking fear in the group and bites Tirion Fordring. The latter feels an intense power overcome him, and his sight turns red as blood. As Lana'thel launches an array of powerful blood attacks against his forces, Tirion attempts to reconcile the overwhelming desires the bite has caused in him, and his willpower snaps.

· He feels bone snap beneath the Ashbringer, and tastes blood. He hears screams and pleas, taunts and laughter, and the calm, sultry tones of the words, "Thank you, Hand of the Light." A glow burns through his sight, a shiver takes violent hold of him, and Tirion drops the Ashbringer as he realizes what he's done. All of his soldiers lay dead or dying, and blood runs across the floor to pool all around him. As he turns around, he sees the blood-queen, Lana'thel, dead but with a peaceful smile across her face.

· "M – Master Fordring?" a quiet voice tries, a priest not quite seventeen years of age. She stares him down, backing away as he rises to calm her. In a moment, however, she is pierced from behind by a longsword, once through the back and a second time, the throat. Tirion can barely comprehend, as he sees the form of the Lich King emerge into the dim light the Ashbringer emits.

· "You've lost the Light, and it will abandon you when you need it the most," Arthas Menethil's voice speaks through the veil of black saronite armor. "I never would have thought Lana'thel could bring you down, but certainly no other could have."

· "Arthas!" Tirion screams, rushing the fallen paladin and piercing him in one strike. As he blinks, however, he notices that this is not the Lich King, but a simple blackguard soldier. He'd seen it all, but none of it had been real. It was like it had been a dream. Tirion breaks down, grief striking him far more heavily than any blade ever could, but in moments it's replaced by rage. He picks up the Ashbringer with all the resolve he can muster, and heads out of the San'layn throne room in search of vengeance.

 **VALITHRIA DREAMWALKER**

· Ruby Mistweaver leads her guild into the Dragons' den, whereupon they come to fight a series of defenders of the wing. They press onward, and eventually spot the green dragon herself, being slowly corrupted. The room is filled with ephemeral images of the Emerald Dream as the corruption takes hold and the Emerald Dream is exploited, but while these 'portals' open endlessly, they close almost immediately thereafter. It is clear that the dragon is still fighting the influence of the Lich King, and that it's not too late to stem the Lich King's influence. It also explains why he seems negligent of the world of Azeroth; there is more to gain from directly seizing the primal Azerothian planes and creating an army in safe isolation.

· The group splits, healers rushing to the dragon's aid to press back the corruption of its mind and ease its wounds while the remaining forces align themselves to face off against several waves of flanking enemies that spawn from four different doorways.

· After a few moments, Valithria awakens to the presence of the Alliance's heroes, and urges them to enter an isolated version of the Emerald Dream to gather primal, living energies. These, she believes, will hasten the healing process and restore all of their vitality.

· The Alliance forces save Valithria after a valiant defense. She reveals her purpose here, to confront Sindragosa and retrieve the undead dragon's soul, thus restoring Sindragosa's life to the world and freeing her from the torment of undeath. She ends up providing a Pulsing Life Crystal to Kierra Carlisle, the then-Guild Master, in the hopes that No Redemption can relieve Sindragosa of the curse the Lich King has inflicted upon her. She then takes a moment, turning to Ruby Mistweaver and Yeaelleas Silverwalker, and tells them both to pursue their greatest dreams. "No matter the cost, there must always be a Lich King, but there need not be a curse."

 **THE DRAGONS – RIMEFANG, SPINESTALKER, SINDRAGOSA**

· The Alliance heroes move through the door at the rear of Valithria's chamber, and take an elevator down to the depths of what they are told is Sindragosa's Citadel aerie. They find themselves in a circular room dark as night, and lighting the area via some old sconces and a few well-placed fireballs, they note the ambush before it happens. The elevator no longer functions, and No Redemption is forced to fight a series of nerubian defenders and other nasties. The voice of the Lich King laughs and taunts them throughout this contest ("I'll bury you here. When the world falls under the chill embrace of death, they will not even remember the fallen Alliance, and neither will I after your world becomes mine. Crumble, heroes, and feed my blade."). Despite this, the Alliance prevails, though they are winded after the fight.

· As the Alliance heroes leave the circular elevator shaft, they hear a shriek throughout the Citadel, and the musing voice of the Lich King. "I hope you weren't trying to kill me, dragon," he speaks, calm and cool. "Regicide will be met with due punishment." The Alliance heroes look between themselves, realizing that Valithria was likely in trouble, but the doors to the shaft close behind them and seal. Sindragosa, they know, awaits, and her dragon guards sit on the metal platform in calm silence, a perfect silence of the grave.

· Several waves of undead Vrykul and humanoids stand before them, and these rush the champions, who make short work of their foes. The dragons, Rimefang and Spinestalker, assail them at once, splitting the group and harrying them. After a few lucky strikes, Rimefang is downed by Ruby Mistweaver, who is targeted quickly and gravely wounded. Derdanos, the Draenei shieldbearer, quickly comes to the fore and defends the healers who've taken to curing the ailments of Ruby and the others.

· In a quick turn, through the combined efforts of Derdanos, Neddard Garthe and Matzen Stormwhistle, Spinestalker succumbs to a deadly stream of shadow energy and is decapitated by Matzen's spear. This, however, draws the attention of Sindragosa, and the greater fight begins.

· Sindragosa begins the fight viciously, tearing through the Alliance heroes before they gain some decent footing and begin to fight back. The heroes begin to feel her chill aura creep into them almost immediately, however, slowing the melee fighters and forcing them to retreat time and again to avoid the frostbite. Several healers find that their abilities are stymied somewhat by her arcane curse, also, which rips through their minds with every spellcast.

· Finally, the heroes are able to repel her, but this only halts the dragon, as she takes to the skies and freezes several of their number in solid blocks of ice, targeting healers as she considers them to be the greater of her burdens. Initially, they attempt to release those trapped, but as one final block remains, Kierra's voice cuts through as a mental command: "HIDE!"

· The Alliance's force can only use the remaining ice block, inside of which Kierra is trapped, and they move about the block to avoid the burning chill of a barrage of icy breath attacks. Sindragosa flies away to recollect herself, and in the ensuing spare time the group prepares to smash the final ice prison.

· Suddenly, Kierra forces them to stop, insisting that, "She will be back. You need this if she intends to keep dropping ice. There's nowhere to flee; we have to kill her when she returns." This is the same moment that she promotes Ruby Mistweaver to Guild Master, and voices her pleasure at having been their leader. Then, she goes silent, and the group hides behind the block again.

· Sindragosa returns, and the ranged of No Redemption immediately open up, firing blasts of arcane and magically-imbued bolts freely. From behind the roaring dragon, however, they hear a sudden pattering sound, as if from rotating fans. In that moment, the Skybreaker returns, firing at the great frost dragon's wings to drop it from the sky. Sindragosa lands hard on the ground, and the Alliance melee forces rush to meet her.

· Ruby alone stays behind, just for a moment, and closes her eyes as she lets her forehead rest on the icy tomb. With this gesture, however, she passes a spiritual barrier, and sinks into a forced slumber while connected to the Emerald Dream. Kierra, despite her silence, is not dead, not yet; she has collapsed into the fragile state between life and death, a dream that acts only as long as her body can still keep her.

· While within this realm, she hands Ruby the Life Crystal, and asks the younger paladin not to blame Sindragosa for what has befallen her. Instead, she should take her vengeance straight to the Lich King himself, and repay him for the world's suffering. The Dream fades, and as Ruby awakens, she notes the lifelessness in her former leader's frozen eyes. Kierra has passed, but with her final words came the gift of the Life Crystal, transferred through the Emerald Dream from her hand to Ruby's.

· Noticing the damage Sindragosa has sustained, Ruby uses the Life Crystal, siphoning the dragon's trapped soul as the body is quickly battered and destroyed. Upon Sindragosa's defeat, a crystal-white sphere appears above her cracked body, her soul; Ruby picks this up, a solid mass, and it seeps into her hand like water drying. She feels the dragon within her, and as she begins to cry, she feels the creature's power bleeding through her, keeping her from succumbing to the grief of losing her closest friend.

· The Skybreaker drops several paladins and Muradin Bronzebeard himself, here to clean up this wing of the Citadel. Rowe, Kierra Carlisle's squire, rushed to her side, but quickly realized that she was beyond saving. He then asked who was in charge of the raiding party, and Ruby regains herself as a couple others point out their new Guild Master. "Yes," she says, "I am." Rowe then swears himself to her, stating that if his master trusted her to such a degree, he should place faith in Kierra's final words. He replaces Kierra as the party's second paladin healer, having learned her trade rather than any direct combat or aggressive support roles.

· Jaina is among them, and since the door leading back has not reopened, she teleports the party back to the Spire. She notes that the Horde's heroes have gone onward, having cleared their wing, alongside Tirion Fordring. They'd wanted to end the Lich King while Sindragosa was distracted, as they did not believe that the Alliance heroes would suffice to defeat the dragon themselves. Despite herself, Jaina had supported this decision, as she was aware that the Horde and the Alliance would not, and could not, have worked together. She has, however, heard nothing, and she can no longer trust that they've succeeded. She forces the heroes to compose themselves, prepare for the fight, and then brings them up to the peak of the Citadel where the Lich King awaits.


End file.
